


Baby I Will

by sdwolfpup



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bartenders, Country & Western, F/M, Happy Ending, Musicians, POV Multiple, guitar porn, i.e.: angst lite and trope-y, keep your expectations low, nobody dies and no one loses a limb, set in the united states, there's a dog too, this is a Hallmark Fic, upon further review this has been upgraded to angst medium
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:01:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 142,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26582578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sdwolfpup/pseuds/sdwolfpup
Summary: When a country singer with a stripper's name and a model's looks strolls into Selwyn's bar to perform one Tuesday night, bartender Brienne isn't sure what to expect. What they both end up with is so much more than they bargained for.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 2029
Kudos: 806





	1. The Devil already knows my name

**Author's Note:**

> Well, hello. How do I even introduce this fic? It started life as a five times one shot idea and now it's five times as long as I thought it would be. Which seems to be normal for me. 
> 
> A few notes before I get to the many thanks that are needed here. First, this is set in modern-day (pre-2020, heh) Nashville, Tennessee, USA. You don't have to know country music or the US to understand it (I hope!) but it suffuses the whole fic. Second, all of the bar/honky tonk names except for Selwyn's are real bar names I stole. Thanks, Google! Third, this is very much a Hallmark Fic - the angst is light, the tropes are full, the bullshit is high. I just want to expectation-set going in. I've got 6 of the 13 chapters written and beta'd, another chapter and a half written, and a very thorough outline for the rest so I expect/hope I'll be able to update once a week. 
> 
> Now for the most important part: thank yous! My eternal love and thanks as always to BrynnMcK for being Alcohol Consultant AND Superstar Beta AND last-minute-nerves-soother. Love and thanks to Forbiddenfantasies for being #1 Validator and Supporter of this fic (and me 😭) from the initial thought to the 5 Times format to the nonsense it is now (and for the moodboard!). Thank you to the discord for causing this madness to exist. To Jencat for new country music recommendations. To Roccolinde for Colt Thunder (give his hair a little tug!). To naomignome for the JamLan Cowboy Hat manip. And to Gary Allan for the story and chapter titles taken from his songs. His whole ~thing~ is how I envision country singer Jaime, so if you'd like to listen, I would start with the blues-country sounds of “Smoke Rings in the Dark," the high-stepping fun of "Drinkin' Dark Whiskey," the tough-guy love song of “Tough Goodbye,” or the soaring heartache of “It Ain't the Whiskey” for the concentrated essence, but I'm happy to recommend others if you're interested!

  


In Brienne's experience, very few interesting things ever happen on Tuesdays.

The bar is open every night of the week, and on Tuesdays the regulars still show up, but they don't drink as much or for as long. They're not depressed or celebrating or utterly done with their shit jobs. It's just Tuesday. Have a drink, listen to some music, go home.

The only noteworthy thing about Tuesdays are those are the nights they put the brand new live acts onstage. It's low risk for everybody involved, and mostly the new acts are forgettable. They play a set, get some polite applause, and then they don't come back. Occasionally, an act stands out by being especially bad or weird. Even more rarely, someone is good, and they get moved to a different night with a bigger audience and more risk.

Tonight's new act hasn't even shown up yet and he's on in five minutes. She looks across the space to Jon, their sound guy, and then taps at her watch. Jon shrugs, which she expected, but it annoys her anyway. The act – Colt Thunder, which is a stripper name if she's ever heard one – hasn't left any way to contact him; no phone number, no demo tape, not even a photo. They've always kept their Tuesday entry requirements low at her urging, because she wants to encourage talent who have nowhere else to go, but sometimes this happens because of it. That's why they do it on Tuesdays, though, because there's no one in the bar right now who cares if Colt Thunder shows up or not. They'll drink, they'll listen to the piped-in music, and then they'll go home, no one the wiser.

At two minutes to eight, a man comes in carrying a well-used guitar case, and he sure looks like a Colt Thunder. Under his tan cowboy hat he's got golden hair falling in curls to his shoulders and he's wearing a denim shirt unbuttoned one button before indecency, faded jeans that are comfortable around his thighs, and worn brown cowboy boots. He hesitates inside the door and looks around and the overhead lights capture the shaved, chiseled lines of his jaw in a way that makes her laugh a little in disbelief. Now she's _positive_ he's a stripper, which means tonight's going to be one of the interesting-weird nights.

She wonders what's in the case, and if she should do a search before she lets him up on the small stage.

But it's an over-21 bar and Jon's already intercepted him, smiling nervously. Colt towers over her sound guy, and Brienne feels a little badly for Jon, but he doesn't look bothered by it. It's certainly never bothered him the way _she_ towers over him, but then she's taller than almost everyone who comes to the bar. Jon directs Colt to the stage and instead of pulling out fake guns or a long pole or packets of free condoms, there's a real guitar in the guitar case. Brienne's surprised and – she admits just to herself – a little disappointed. Colt Thunder looks like he has muscles under all that denim, and it's been a long dry spell.

Jon gets him set up with a stool, adjusts the height of the mic, and they share a brief conversation, during which Colt flashes Jon a charming, white-toothed smile and Brienne realizes she's been standing unmoving at the bar this entire time just staring at the man.

The honky-tonk is big enough for line-dancing nights, but on Tuesdays there are tables out on the old, scuffed hardwood floor, and tonight they're about half-filled. A few of the patrons are eyeing Colt with a kind of distant curiosity, except for the three women who'd come in from the office park a few miles away and are appreciating him more directly. They're here most Tuesdays, and Brienne likes them even if she still hasn't learned much more about them than their names. Brienne fell into full-time bartending two years ago when Galladon left for the city and her dad needed her help, and though she grew up in this bar, she's never been great at the socialization part.

She's much better at the drinks part. The bar is arranged to her liking since she works most nights – Thursday through Sundays, and then Tuesdays, because she likes the quiet of Tuesdays – and she barely has to look when she reaches her long arm behind her for a glass, when she pulls the tap on the local beer. There's not a lot of call for mixed cocktails here, but she's learned those, too, and enjoys the showmanship of their preparation. The businesswomen are her primary audience for the spin and shake, and they always give her a bigger tip than anyone else.

Colt's tuning his guitar, his fingers moving confidently along the strings and pegs as he tunes by ear. When he gives one last strum, the sound rolls sumptuous and pitched just right through the room. Jon points to Colt and nods, and Colt leans towards the microphone. Brienne checks her watch. 8:06. Not bad.

“Good evening,” Colt says, and his voice is slow honey. “My name is, uh,” he pauses, like he's forgotten it. “Colt Thunder. I'm gonna play a few original songs for you tonight.”

Another surprise. Brienne had assumed he'd be doing covers – something easy and popular from Strait's songlist, or even something with a little more of the rough rider vibe of Cash. In spite of herself, she pushes up the sleeves of her loose flannel shirt and leans on the bar, watching him. No one's waiting for a drink and there's no way there'll be an unexpected rush she should be preparing for. Selwyn's rushes are few and far between, and never more than her and Jon can handle.

Colt clears his throat and he's still near the mic so it crackles loud over the speakers. He winces and pulls back and one of his boots taps out a quick rhythm against the stool. He's nervous. His first time performing, maybe, which means he's probably not good. Interesting-bad, then. Brienne sighs. Those are her least favorite nights; she doesn't enjoy seeing most people fail, and, except for his tardiness, Colt seems inoffensive enough.

The table of women are all leaning forward in their seats and Brienne smirks a little. Unless he's a terrible singer, he'll have them on his side, at least.

He plays an abrupt, dramatic chord that shoots out from his guitar like the crack of a whip, and then follows it up with a complicated pattern of notes that has Brienne straightening, roped in by the urgency of the music. Colt dips his head as he plays, so when he shifts near the microphone he's peering up from under the curling brim of his hat as he starts to sing.

He's not, in fact, a terrible singer.

The lyrics are straightforward enough: long drives and the open road and getting lost together in the back of beyond. Brienne's heard variations of this sort of song before, some with more poetic lyrics. But when Colt sings she can smell the dust clouds they're leaving in their wake, can hear the crunch of gravel in his voice, can imagine they're in the bed of his pickup in an empty field and discovering what freedom really means.

Brienne flushes and grabs the nearest dirty glasses with a loud clank, turning her back on the stage to start cleaning. There's no turning her back on his voice, though. It isn't slow anymore, and it certainly isn't sweet. It presses, insistent, at the base of her neck.

When the song ends, the trio of women applaud vigorously, and Brienne breathes a sigh of relief. Always start with your best song is a trick she's known many performers to pull. It buys goodwill and forgiveness, and that had been a damn good song: fun and sexy, and he had performed it well. But it's unlikely he's got another like it in his arsenal.

The only sounds from the stage are a few tests of the strings, and when Brienne chances a look he's tuning again.

“Thank you,” he says into the microphone, his mouth so close she can hear the brush of his lips.

He's clearly got very limited stage experience, though he seems older than she is. Must be a late bloomer. Colt finishes his tuning and without another word drops immediately into a blues lick that curls low through her body.

This song is even more demanding, a plea that if she just comes back, he'll make everything all right again. His voice is a wail on the chorus; in the bridge when he sings about how lonely the nights are now that she's gone, his voice drops into a register that snakes into her bones.

When he finishes this one, Brienne's forgotten she was cleaning, and everyone in the bar applauds. He thanks them all again and kicks into his next song. His between-song patter is non-existent, and he needs to group his music better so he has to tune less, but his entire set is one fantastic song after another. They're accompanied by occasionally astonishing guitar-playing, and he delivers them in a soft-sandpaper drawl that occasionally veers into believable agony and never lets the listener forget that bodies were meant to be touching each other and his is right there.

Colt finishes up his last song and holds his hand up to the cheering patrons. “Thank you,” he says for the tenth time that night. “Good night.” Then he unplugs his guitar from the jack and sets it back into the case while Jon runs over to help him.

Brienne focuses on her own work. That hadn't been what she'd expected, and an uneasy itch creeps between her shoulder blades. Her dad's bar is her second home – there are notches on the front door that track her swiftly growing height, photos scattered on the walls of her and her family with all sorts of visitors – and she's seen a lot of performers come through the dramatically lit space. But no one's had the raw talent of the man currently leaning back on the stool, talking quietly with Jon. If he stops relying on just his good looks to connect with the audience, if he pays more attention to the rise and fall of the energy of his set, he could be a superstar. She wants to hear him with a band, too – a fiddle player for the country and a slide guitar for the blues, a set of drums to drive home the urgency of his songs.

But she's making plans for a man she's never even talked to, and much as she loves this bar, Brienne's just the bartender.

She's got all the glasses washed and is setting them back in their spots when someone taps the bar behind her.

“Whiskey, barkeep,” Colt says in his rough, sung-out voice.

She turns her head a little and says, “Whiskey?”

“That's what I said,” in a distracted voice.

Brienne faces him then, folding her arms over her chest. He's leaning on one elbow on the bar with his back mostly to her, watching the table with the ladies as they whisper and shoot him lingering glances, and ignoring the bartender that's actually serving him.

“What kind of whiskey?” Brienne asks with a little more bite than usual.

He swivels his head her way, and up close the angles of his face and the deep green of his eyes are equally sharp, and oddly, vaguely familiar. Brienne is not any less unaffected by him up close; it's worse being able to see the slight dimple in his cheek, the way his lips look pink and dry. His gaze takes her in in return, lingering a little on the scoop of her shirt, and she feels awkward in the tank top and flannel combo she always wears. Just because she doesn't have much in the way of boobs doesn't mean she wants him to stare at her chest anyway.

“Hello?” she says.

“Just get me anything,” he replies, frowning. She's not sure if he's more offended by her question or her appearance.

“What kind of a cowboy doesn't have a whiskey preference?”

He glares at her. “I wasn't sure a bar like this would have Four Roses Single Barrel.”

“A bar like _what_?” she asks, keeping her voice low and calm. “You mean the one you played at tonight for free?”

“With an audience this size, _you_ should have paid _me_. But then you'd have to take money out of your Christmas lights budget,” he says, gesturing at the multiple strings of white lights strung behind the bar.

“Those are faerie lights,” she tells him, and he smirks, his eyes dancing.

“Did you put those up, darlin', or does someone else do the decorating here?”

Brienne's cheeks heat and she turns and grabs a bottle of George Dickel Barrel Select, pours him a finger and slides it towards his waiting hand. “Here. I have Four Roses, but this is better.”

Colt lifts one eyebrow curiously, and holds the glass up to the lights. “That's a bold statement.”

“It's a bold drink. Tennessee whiskey requires someone with the patience to savor it.”

“I'm very good at savoring bold flavors.”

The image of what he might be savoring ignites a small flame down deep.

“Most men think they are,” she replies. She's trying to smother her body's reaction, but Colt's confident smile only turns up the heat.

“I'm not like most men.”

It should only be infuriating bullshit, but there's something persuasive in the assertive way he says it, the way his eyes stay locked on hers, that makes her think it could be true.

Over his shoulder, one of the women, Ellaria, is sashaying their way. Brienne exhales and escapes from his stare. “Looks like you've got a fan, Colt.”

“What about you?” he asks, his voice deep and teasing. “Are you a fan of mine?”

Brienne's saved from having to answer around her suddenly thick tongue when Ellaria slides up next to him and rests her hand on his forearm.

“You were wonderful,” she coos.

He stands and Brienne realizes he's nearly as tall as she is, especially in his boots. Colt touches the tip of his hat. “Thank you, ma'am.”

“Please, call me Ellaria,” she purrs, her hand curving more tightly on his arm. Ellaria's always arresting in appearance: dark eyes, dark hair, a knowing smile. Even in her business slacks and shirt she looks like the type of woman Colt Thunder would happily take to bed.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Ellaria,” Colt says. He holds up his drink. “If you don't mind, my voice is tired and the barkeep here assures me this whiskey can't be missed.”

“I like the burn of whiskey. I could join you.” Her tone is so suggestive, the words falling from her sultry lips in such an open invitation, that Brienne feels her cheeks heat a little. She's never seen Ellaria in full attack mode like this, but it's overwhelming.

“I've already got company, but thank you kindly.” Colt's all politeness and manners, but the message comes through loud and clear: _I'm not interested. You can go._ Brienne is baffled at his neutrality to everything Ellaria's offering. He must be exhausted.

Ellaria glances at Brienne, and she looks amused more than anything as she pats Colt's arm and lifts one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “If you change your mind, I'll be here for a while.”

Brienne watches her walk back to her table, while Colt immediately turns and looks at Brienne again. Ellaria sits and says something to her friends, Lyanna and Catelyn, that has them looking openly shocked.

“Now, where were we?” Colt says, and Brienne's breathing hitches when he leans on the bar towards her. “You were about to tell me if you were a fan.”

“I thought you were tired?”

“That's why I want to hear you talk. Tell me everything you like about me,” he says with an expansive flourish of his hand and an annoyingly charming grin.

“Your songs are good,” she starts, grabbing the nearest towel and glass and polishing it to a high shine. She can feel his eyes on her face, though she doesn't dare meet them.

“Am _I_ good?”

“You don't engage with the audience enough,” she says truthfully and he sets his drink down, still untouched. He better drink that. It's good whiskey.

“Really? Ellaria seemed pretty engaged.”

Brienne snorts and does look at him then. He looks annoyed, even though he asked for her opinion. “She thinks you're hot,” Brienne explains, like she's talking to a child. “But what about him?” She points at one of their other Tuesday regulars, Ralf. “He's already forgotten you were up there. Which means when he goes home to his wife and she asks him how his night went, he'll say it was fine and not mention you at all.”

Colt's pink lips have thinned and he's gripping the bar now. “Is that so?”

“It is,” she says, defensive. “If your name wasn't so silly, I'm not sure anyone would remember you.”

“Let me get this straight: my music is good, but I'm boring onstage and my name is silly. Any other opinions about me you'd like to share, barkeep?”

“My name is Brienne,” she says. “And no, I think that will do it.”

Colt looks like he has several opinions he's eager to share so she points at his whiskey. “Are you going to drink that?” she asks.

“I feel like I need it now,” he grouses, taking a long swallow. She watches his neck, the movement of the muscles and his Adam's apple as the liquor slides down his throat. Brienne swallows, too. When he sets the glass down he exhales loudly and looks even angrier.

“Well?” she says. “How is it?”

“It's better, damn you.”

Brienne smiles, because she knew it was. She's feeling gracious in victory so she says, “You should keep working on your act. We have next Tuesday open still.”

“Not worried I'll drive away the patrons of this very fine establishment with my boring performance?”

“If you didn't want my honest opinion, why'd you ask?” she snaps.

“I didn't think you'd give it to me!”

It's an absurd reason, but she suspects few people tell him much beyond how attractive and charming he is, though he hasn't been much of the latter with her. “I don't like lying to people,” she says simply.

“A fact I wish I'd known ten minutes ago.”

Brienne throws her cloth over her shoulder and fists her hands on her hips. “Do you want to come back next week or not?”

“I do,” he snarls.

“Fine, then do it.”

“I will.”

“I'll put you on the list.”

He finishes off the last of the whiskey and smacks the glass down hard on the bar. “Good.” He snorts at her like he's some sort of angry bull and then says, “My name isn't Colt Thunder.”

“No shit,” she says, rolling her eyes. He looks offended. “Come on, no actual human has ever been named Colt Thunder at birth.”

“I needed a name and my brother suggested it.”

“I'm worried your brother doesn't have your best interests at heart,” she says, and when he laughs a little it eases the tension between them. Not-Colt grins sheepishly, and the little-boy curl of his mouth is extraordinarily appealing. “What is your name?” Brienne asks.

He hesitates long enough that she's suddenly worried he's a felon on the run. After a few seconds he holds out his hand. “My name's Jaime.”

She shakes it firmly, the calloused pads of his fingers rubbing over the back of her hand. “It's nice to meet you, Jaime.” The pressure of his grip lingers a few moments after he releases her hand. “That's a better name than Colt Thunder, if you're looking for any last suggestions.”

“I'm not, but I'll keep that in mind,” he says wryly.

They stare at each other for a few more seconds and Brienne can feel a blush gathering in the pale, exposed skin of her chest. She clears her throat and takes his empty glass. “Can I get you another one?”

“No,” he says, that single word thick with regret. “I have a long drive home and I should set out. You'll be working again next Tuesday?”

“Every Tuesday. My dad owns the bar.”

“Ah, he must be the titular Selwyn.”

“ _Titular_ ,” she says on a laugh. “That's a fancy word for Cowboy Colt to use.”

“It has nothing to do with breasts, I assure you,” he says and she does blush, then, to his obvious delight. “It's been a pleasure to meet you, Barkeep Brienne.”

“You, too,” she manages, and he tips his hat towards her, hefts his guitar case, and saunters out of the bar. She's not the only one watching him leave – Ellaria and Jon both watch his exit.

When Colt – or Jaime, if he's to be believed – is gone, Jon comes over and sits up on one of the stools. “That man looks like a country star,” Jon says with the sort of breathless appreciation that reminds Brienne of Ellaria.

“He's coming back next week,” she says, her eyes straying to the door. “I guess we'll find out if he is one.”


	2. (You can't handle) What's on my mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been almost two decades since he's been in a bar like this, but even though he's changed significantly in that time, a bar like this never does. Selwyn's is clearly family-run, falling apart a little in the corners they think no one will notice, shined up in the spots that attract attention. Spots like the bar itself, the long, polished wood gleaming under the charmingly whimsical fairy lights. The very tall bartender is there with the sound guy, Jon, from the week before, both of them laughing and chatting easily. Her hands are busy as she cleans and organizes, setting out a fresh bowl of nuts, refreshing the small pile of napkins. Jaime had gotten a good look at those hands last week, the long fingers and rough knuckles, the taut forearms unveiled under the rolled-up sleeves of her flannel shirt. 
> 
> He'd also gotten a look at her face, too, though her startling homeliness was inconsequential compared to the shocking, electric blue of her eyes. They'd ultimately been inconsequential, too, once she'd narrowed them in judgment at his skills and his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It occurred belatedly to me that while Roccolinde was in fact the one who introduced me to Colt Thunder, I did not share that this is in fact [an actual country song](https://open.spotify.com/track/7f3FehH5GWKkjEC2Wseb9j?si=yWcLuQ_2SP2L2-lRN2gUOA) by George Fox and it is in fact about an actual stripper cowboy.

Jaime arrives early to Selwyn's next Tuesday. He hadn't intended to be late the week before, but he'd gotten stuck in a meeting that ran over and then stuck again behind a jack-knifed tractor-trailer on the two-lane highway out to the bar. He leaves with extra time this week, and gets there twenty to eight. But instead of sitting in his truck in the lightly-filled lot and passing the time scrolling his phone, he climbs out and heads inside to see if the bartender from last week is there like she said she'd be. 

_Brienne_ , he remembers when he steps inside the homey and welcoming space and looks for her. It's been almost two decades since he's been in a bar like this, but even though he's changed significantly in that time, a bar like this never does. Selwyn's is clearly family-run, falling apart a little in the corners they think no one will notice, shined up in the spots that attract attention. Spots like the bar itself, the long, polished wood gleaming under the charmingly whimsical fairy lights. The very tall bartender is there with the sound guy, Jon, from the week before, both of them laughing and chatting easily. Her hands are busy as she cleans and organizes, setting out a fresh bowl of nuts, refreshing the small pile of napkins. Jaime had gotten a good look at those hands last week, the long fingers and rough knuckles, the taut forearms unveiled under the rolled-up sleeves of her flannel shirt. 

He'd also gotten a look at her face, too, though her startling homeliness was inconsequential compared to the shocking, electric blue of her eyes. They'd ultimately been inconsequential, too, once she'd narrowed them in judgment at his skills and his name. 

Jaime's return to a stage should have been a personal triumph. He'd remembered all the words to his songs and hadn't messed up the chords or tuned wrong. But it was Brienne's critiques that had burrowed under his skin on the drive home, and he'd struggled to get to sleep that night as he'd run through his set again in his mind. The damnable part is that she was right about all of it, including the name. Jaime's fairly certain Tyrion's intentions had been good when he'd suggested 'Colt Thunder' to hide Jaime's identity, but it was impossible to tell anything for sure thanks to his brother's resting smug face. 

Jaime briefly scans the rest of the bar, sees the businesswomen from last week have been joined by a second table of women, and he quickly heads for the bar before they see him. He wants to poke at Brienne a little more anyway, see if he can get a rise out of her as easily as he had last week. Mostly people simper and bow to him, because of his money or his looks or his name. It's invigorating to meet someone who doesn't care about any of those things. 

“Good evening, barkeep,” Jaime says when he saunters over, and Jon and Brienne both turn to look at him mid-conversation. Jaime tips his hat and they both get the same flustered flush pinking their cheeks, though Brienne recovers more quickly. 

“Colt,” she says dryly. He supposes it's a perverse sense of spite that her continued resistance makes him happy. “You're on time this week I see.”

“I'm early,” he points out. 

“I'll throw you a parade. Do you need something?”

“Some of that very fine whiskey from last week will do,” he says. 

“Drinking before a set? Got some nerves tonight?” she says. 

“Got advice about that for me, too, darlin'?” he drawls, and the flush is back, a little deeper than last time. 

Brienne's got the same low-necked tank-top and flannel combo she had last week, and it's hard to look away from the expanse of pale skin and freckles, like a meadow covered in wildflowers. Jaime's saved from his inappropriate staring when she steps back to grab the whiskey bottle – except then he can see she's in dark blue jeans that are loose around her calves and deliciously tight higher up. 

“You live near here?” Jon asks and Jaime reluctantly turns his gaze to the man. 

“I'm in Nashville.” 

Jon frowns. “Why don't you play bars there, then? You'll get bigger crowds.” 

“As your bartender here so eloquently reminded me last week, I need to work on my live performances before I can get into those spots.” 

Brienne pours him the drink and shoves it with unnecessary force Jaime's way. He picks it up, salutes her with it, and takes a long swallow, the liquid a smooth burn in his belly. 

He likes that she's watching him with a suspicious glare, like she's waiting for him to turn feral or jump up on the tables and cause problems. Jaime has upended a table or two in his day, and though he wouldn't any more, it's the image he's trying to project as Colt Thunder. As opposite from Jaime Lannister as he can get. He'd dye his hair, too, if he could wash it out in time for work tomorrow. But that would invite far too many questions and his music these days is for him alone, the only thing he's got that is. Which is also why he's not playing the bars in Nashville, but Jon doesn't need to know that. 

A pair of older men come into the bar and hail Brienne, and she moves down to help them and chat a bit, leaving Jaime alone with Jon. 

“How do you like living in Nashville?” Jon asks. 

“It's Nashville,” Jaime says, smiling a little. 

Jon nods, like that means anything. “You play music full-time?”

“Not yet,” Jaime says, glancing towards Brienne. She's all smiles with her patrons, men she's clearly known for awhile. Her mouth is wide and her lips are thick and her teeth are too big but it's charming all together. 

“You're really good. How long have you been performing?”

Jaime's been hit on by enough men and women to know a roundabout flirtation when he hears one, and Jon seems nice enough, but Jaime's not interested in that particular game right now, so he finishes off his whiskey and gives Jon a polite smile. “Not too long. Do you mind if we get set up?” 

“Sure, that's fine,” Jon says hurriedly, and they walk to the stage. Jaime can feel the two tables of women eyeing him, and normally he'd play up the show, maybe bend over with his ass facing their way, but he wants Brienne to see he can win them over with more than just his looks and body. Brienne is still talking to the old men, who seem to be going on at length about nothing important, eating up the time Jaime had planned to spend showing her his modified setlist. Now she'll just have to discover it with the rest of them. 

Because he was on-time, set-up is calmer and slower, and it's just a few minutes to eight when Jon signals that he's ready to go. Brienne's at least done talking to the men, who've taken a table in the front row. She's wiping idly at the bar when Jaime catches her eye and gestures at his guitar. On her nod, Jaime takes a breath and leans towards the microphone. 

“Good evening, everyone. My name's Colt Thunder. I'm down from Nashville and I'm gonna play a few original songs for you tonight. Thanks for having me back.” 

The dark-haired woman from last week gives a welcoming little “Glad to see you again!” that makes him grin. 

Another time, another place, he might have engaged her a little more, but Jaime's more concerned with the guitar held with tender firmness in his arms than doing the same with her. He strokes the smooth, curved body and then sets his fingers on the strings. Most of his planned songs are the same as last week's set, but in a different order, except this first one which is too much of a crowd-pleaser to save for later. He may not have the live performance skills Brienne thinks he should – most of them are rusted out from disuse, or never learned well enough the first time – but he remembers at least this much. 

The crowd is livelier tonight from the get-go, thanks largely to the two tables of women. Jaime finds himself glancing towards the bar as he sings to gauge Brienne's response, too. He'd forgotten how bright stage lights could be, but he squints until he's able to see that she's not even watching him, preoccupied with something behind the bar. 

_All right_ , he thinks as the song ends with a flashy strum of chords. _I'll show her._ The audience applauds with more vigor than last week. 

“Thank you,” he says and then, because of Brienne's critique, he adds, “how y'all doing tonight?”

There are some generally cheerful whoops from the small crowd, which loosen him up. The tension in his shoulders eases a little. Jaime's mostly been playing to himself or Tyrion and Belle in his apartment for so long, he isn't used to strangers hearing him again. 

“Mighty glad to hear it,” he says, smiling. “This next song I wrote on a work break when I would rather have been outside doing anything else.” One of the men in the front lifts his beer in a salute, and Jaime kicks into the song, another tripping number that he'd performed last week, but gets a more enthusiastic response this time. 

He slides into his third song without any talk and after, while he's doing his first tuning of the set, he tries to think of something else to say. Jaime had planned to just wing it for the patter, but maybe he should have prepared more. “I wrote this next song,” he tentatively starts out as he twists the tuning pegs and keeps half an ear out on the key change, “after a failed relationship that was mostly my fault. Hopefully it's not too relatable for the rest of you,” he adds with a grin. Jaime strums the guitar and nods at the sound that rolls out. “But if it is, well, at least you're not alone.” 

This is the only new song he's brought tonight. It's slower than the rest of his set, moody and dark and rough around the edges. He shuts his eyes as he croons it, opens them to work through the bridge that sounds deceptively simple but took a lot of effort to get right, and he still misses three notes when he plays it. But when the song ends, his voice dropping low and then to silence, there's a hushed pause in the crowd before they break out into loud applause. Jaime nods at them and when he looks at Brienne, she's clapping too. She looks ethereal backlit by the pale glow of the faerie lights behind the bar. They don't hide her height or the span of her shoulders, but he sees the wisps of hair escaping from her loose braid, her fingers elongated even more in the light and shadow. 

Jaime winks at her and she immediately looks away, grabbing a glass and staring at it like it's asked her for a drink. 

The rest of Jaime's set is a rousing success, if he says so himself. The women chair dance through his up-tempo ones, the old men that know Brienne don't talk through any of the songs, and he elicits a few laughs with his asides. By the time he's tipping his hat in gratitude at the end of the night, everyone in the bar is stomping their feet in appreciation and Jaime's beaming when he bends to put his guitar back. 

Jon comes running up on stage and claps him hard on the shoulder, his face flushed and eyes shining. “That was fantastic! You really picked up your game.” 

“I had some help,” Jaime says. Brienne's getting drinks for a couple of the patrons, and then one of the men comes up to shake Jaime's hand and compliment him on the show. By the time he's done, the table of eager women have swarmed up and Jaime spends more time charming his way out of talking to them, too. He's grateful, genuinely, that people are more enthused by the music this time, but he wants to know what Brienne thought. Once he's escaped the fawning women and someone's hand far too close to his ass, he turns to the bar, but Brienne's still busy. 

Jaime gathers his things and checks his watch and sighs. He's got an early meeting in the morning that he really needs to finish prepping for, because his father will be there, judging Jaime's every syllable and slide. Brienne serves her last drink and looks his way, gesturing with her head that he should come over. The meeting can wait; Jaime's done more important work on less sleep. 

“So, Barkeep, what'd you think?” 

Brienne rolls her eyes and shoves a glass of whiskey towards him. “I was going to say you earned this, but I'm starting to doubt it.”

Jaime grabs the glass and takes a slow sip, watching her over the rim as he does. She holds his gaze, barely, her eyes blinking quickly. “You shouldn't punish earned confidence, darlin'.” 

“You still need to work on your banter,” she says and he huffs, annoyed. 

“Have any other notes?”

“Are you going to get mad at me if I do?”

“That depends,” he says, smirking. “Are you going to be sanctimonious when you deliver them?”

Her whole face goes the most delightful patchwork of shades of red, and she folds those marvelously long arms over her broad chest. “Where do you keep getting all these ten-dollar words?”

“My Word-A-Day calendar.”

That earns him a genuinely amused snort of laughter, and the tension in her grip on her forearms eases. “I'm not sanctimonious,” she insists, “but I do have more ideas.”

“Then let's hear them. I've got time.” He doesn't, at all, but he sits down at the bar and folds his hands in front of him like an obedient student. 

“Well... you did do better this week. I like the order of the songs you chose, although I think the second-to-last one should be your finale instead.”

He'd had that thought himself when he was playing it. “That's fair. What else?”

“You interacted with the audience more. Most of it was pretty cliché, but you pulled it off.” 

Jaime shakes his head. “Damned with faint praise, but thank you, I think.” 

Brienne has the grace to look a little embarrassed. “The stubble's good,” she mutters, and Jaime knows he shouldn't poke at it, but he's not going to let that one slide. 

“You noticed?” He lifts his chin tilting his head this way and that like she's examining him, which could not be further from the truth. Mostly she's staring very intently somewhere past his ear. “I didn't have time to shave this morning, but I'll keep that in mind for next time.” 

“Where are you playing next?” she asks with a terribly faked nonchalance. 

“I was hoping I could play here again. You've got a nice setup, and I'd hate to lose your very keen coaching already.” 

“I'm just trying to help,” she says with an acerbic bite, and Jaime holds up his hands in surrender. 

“I meant that seriously, don't get your boots in a twist. My brother says I have an incurable default to sarcasm.”

“Maybe he's smarter than I thought,” she says, and Jaime grins at her. “I do have one more piece of advice, if you're open to it?” Jaime waves for her to continue. “You should go watch other small-venue performers to see how their methods differ from yours.”

“I'm not copying anybody,” he says firmly. “I'm going to do what I want to do.” 

Brienne lifts an eyebrow; it's so pale it's hard to see in the dim bar lighting. “I'm not saying you should. If you want to hit it big, you won't do it acting like everybody else. But do you even know what “everybody else” means these days? And I don't mean on country radio; the music you're hearing today is yesterday's music at the labels. You need to figure out what tomorrow's music is and where you fit in that.” 

“How do you know so much about the industry?” he asks. 

“I've had a lot of musicians come through these doors. How do you not? You're the one trying to build a career.”

“I'm a late bloomer,” he says breezily. Which is true in spirit, if not in actual fact. Whatever his past, this is the first time he's played his songs on his terms, and while a career in music hadn't been his intention, he thinks playing small bars like this in his free time for the rest of his life might be enough to save his soul from dying on the vine of his father's carefully tended vineyard. It's worth it to try to up his game a little. 

“You've got a lot of talent,” Brienne says, sounding reluctant, and Jaime chuckles. “You could go pretty far, with some work and luck.” 

“I'm not afraid of work, and I've already had quite a lot of luck finding you.” 

She flushes, that charmingly uneven spread across her freckled skin. “It's just common sense,” she says. 

“Something I'm clearly lacking. So when do we start?” he asks impulsively, delighted by the confused line that appears between her brows. 

“Start what?”

“Seeing other shows.”

“You can start whenever you want.” She's not parsing this at all, he can tell. 

“Are you free Friday?”

“For what?”

Jaime leans forward and taps his finger on the bar. “To go see someone else perform. I can't go out there without my coach – we've already established I don't have the sense God gave a goose. I need you to come with me.” 

She looks flummoxed. Jaime thinks he'll save that word for next time they meet. “I'm--I'm working.”

“When are you not working?” 

“Um, tomorrow?”

“Great, then tomorrow it is. Do you want me to pick you up here or meet there?”

Her eyes are huge: big blue marbles that look ready to fall out of her head. Jaime almost feels guilty, but he imagines Brienne the bartender has never been streamrolled into anything she didn't actually want to do. 

“We can meet, I guess. Are you sure about this?”

“A thousand percent,” he says. He is, too. The idea had flitted into his head as a lark, but he's already looking forward to it. “Do you have a phone or should I just call the bar?”

The first hints of suspicion cut through her daze. “You can call the bar. Someone will get the message to me if I'm not here.” 

“All right.” Jaime throws back the rest of his whiskey and gasps when he sets it down. “That's good, but it's strong.” 

“The best ones are,” she says and Jaime has to agree. 

“I really should get going,” he tells her, though he has to force himself to get up from the barstool. “I'll see you tomorrow, Barkeep.”

“Brienne,” she responds, but it's robotic in its reflex. Still dazed. Jaime won't be surprised if she doesn't show up tomorrow, but he's going to be optimistic for once in his life. 

He turns to go and finds Jon staring at him, so he throws Jon a wave and Jon waves a little back, looking sheepish. When Jaime walks back to his truck, he hears a car door open and then shut again, and movement off to the side catches his attention. It's one of the dark-haired woman's new friends. She sashays over, intersecting his path to his truck. 

“Good evening, miss,” he says politely. 

“Lysa,” she says, holding out her hand, knuckles up. Jaime shifts his guitar case to his other hand and takes hers, turning them sideways and giving her a firm shake. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Lysa.” 

“Oh the pleasure is all mine, Colt. You were wonderful up there tonight. You must have been playing for awhile now.” 

“Just in my home,” he says, shuffling a little to the side to get closer to his truck. He's spent too long talking to Brienne and he really needs to get home. “But I appreciate that.”

“You're going to be a star someday, Colt Thunder. Mark my words.” She presses her hand to her not-inconsiderable breasts. Jaime keeps his eyes firmly trained on her face. 

“From your lips to God's ears. I really do need to be getting off,” he says, and as soon as the words leave his mouth he regrets them, because the enchanted smile she's wearing turns positively salacious. Jaime wonders if Brienne would like that word, too, right before Lysa steps so close to his body she brushes against him. 

“I could help you with that,” she says in a husky voice, and Jaime gives her a tight smile and brings his guitar case up between them, grabbing it with both hands like a shield. 

“All covered on that front, ma'am, thank you. I'm gonna be late and I have someone waiting for me at home,” he says.

“Oh,” Lysa says, some of her forwardness leaving her. “Someone special?”

“Very,” Jaime says with a smile, and Lysa sighs and steps back. 

“You were good tonight,” she says again, and it feels genuine this time, which thrills him more than her eager pawing ever could have. 

“Thank you,” he says sincerely, tips his hat to her, and gets into his truck. He does have someone waiting eagerly for his return, although she'll be asleep by the time he gets home. Snoring, too, if he knows Belle. Jaime had asked his pet sitter to take her to the dog park to tire her out, since he knew he'd be home late. He'll have to beg another late night from her tomorrow, but it'll be worth the money and the groveling. The clock suggests he might regret his lingering tonight when he has to wake up extra-early tomorrow, but it's hard to regret anything when he thinks of Brienne's baffled face. Hopefully he'll be able to keep her equally on her toes when they're out. He hadn't been lying: her input has already helped him oil his creaking musical joints, and he wants to see what she thinks of the other acts out there, her opinion of what his chances might be in comparison. 

Jaime had started singing and writing songs for himself as a child, had had that twisted and taken away from him when he'd been too young to defend himself, but these last two performances have triggered a familiar echo in him that grows louder by the day. When he'd walked into Selwyn's the first time, he'd been focused on the past. Now he's wondering if there might be more here for him to grab onto, and it's exhilarating and terrifying all at once. 

Jaime turns on the radio and thinks about the future the whole drive home.


	3. I ain't runnin' yet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First, she's got an outing with Jaime. It's certainly not a date, and any other label seems too familiar or too clinical, so outing it is. Thinking of it that way means she doesn't worry too much over her outfit, that she's not nervous when she parks a couple of blocks away from the tavern and sees him leaning casually against the wall outside when she walks up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't @ me about the chapter count, I know. 😂

Brienne goes into the bar mid-afternoon the next day even though it's her day off, and though her dad smiles when he sees her walk through the door, there's a tiredness that makes her anxious. The lines on his face seem to get deeper every week 

“Hi, Angel! I didn't expect to see you today.” 

“Hey, Daddy.” She walks behind the bar and hugs him in greeting. “I'm expecting a call, so I thought I'd stop by and see if there's been any messages.” 

“Oh, I don't know, you know our new voicemail system confuses me. You can check. Everything all right?”

“Yeah, just making plans with a, um, friend.” She disappears into the back room that serves as their storage, kitchen, break room, and office. The red light on the phone is flashing and when she presses play, Jaime's voice fills the space. 

“Hello, this is...” There is a very long pause. “Colt Thunder. I have a message for your bartender, Brienne. Please let her know the location will be Bobby's Idle Hour Tavern at eight. Thank you.”

His voice is different in his message; still rich, but with a formal politeness that sounds like a man who's spent years employing just that tone to get his way. Intriguing. 

“Everything all right?” her dad asks from behind her, and Brienne jumps. “Whoa, sorry kiddo, didn't mean to scare you.” 

“I'm fine.” She laughs a little and deletes the message. There's a bunch of other messages that her dad hasn't listened to yet, but she ignores them for now. He'll figure it out. 

“I'm glad you came in, actually, I wanted to talk to you about the performer last night.” 

“Colt?” 

Her dad nods. “I ran into Goodwin at the market this morning and he really talked him up. Sounds like we should move him to a better night – Friday maybe, if you think he's ready for it. There's a little buzz around him and it might help the bar. You think he'll play here again?” 

Jaime had asked first if she was free Friday. “Yeah I think we can arrange that,” she says. “I'll reach out to him and see what we can do.” 

“Great!” There's more relief than happiness in her dad's voice. Brienne knows the bar's well-being weighs on him. Galladon had always known how to soothe their dad's fears, but it was a role Brienne had never been able to fill. She wishes Gal were here now, but she hasn't seen him in awhile, even though he's only in Nashville, their schedules never quite aligning. Brienne's tired of being the one who adapts to make things work. But if she doesn't hear from him soon she'll take some Friday off and meet him for lunch like he begs her to do whenever they do talk. 

First, she's got an outing with Jaime. It's certainly not a date and any other label seems too familiar or too clinical, so outing it is. Thinking of it that way means she doesn't worry too much over her outfit, that she's not nervous when she parks a couple of blocks away from the tavern and sees him leaning casually against the wall outside when she walks up. 

“You're late, Barkeep” he says and Brienne checks her phone. It's 8:02, so she rolls her eyes and opens the door, scanning the flier taped to the outside of it announcing the performer tonight. It's someone she's heard nothing about: Clancy Hughes. 

“I bought tickets already,” Jaime tells her, hurrying to catch up with her, and he flashes his phone toward the ticket taker at the entrance. Brienne tries to see Jaime's last name, but all she can make out are the alternating stripes of a barcode before the man stamps both of their hands with an hourglass stamp and sends them inside. 

Brienne's been in the Idle Hour Tavern before, though it's been awhile. Ever since she started working full time at the bar, she doesn't get out much at all, and almost never to Nashville. It's nice to be in the city again at night, music filtering in from outside every time the bar door opens, the air filled with a pleasant chatter. Her dad wants their bar to have this same kind of energy, but they're too far out to attract the irregulars that bring the excitement. They need a draw besides being a family bar with years of history serving their community. Brienne watches Jaime charm two beers from the bartender, a slender young woman with soft doe eyes and an interested smile. If he puts in the work, if he agrees to keep playing for them, he might be just that sort of attraction. 

Jaime's attracting attention just being himself, even though he's dressed as casually as she is: jeans, the same worn boots, a black t-shirt that's just tight enough to be distracting, especially with what she sees now is the bottom of some larger tattoo hidden by his right sleeve, and his hat with his golden hair curling out from under it. He joins her where she's staked out a spot near the back wall by the soundboard and hands her a beer. 

“You haven't even said hello,” he says, leaning nearer than strictly necessary given they're still only playing radio hits over the speakers. 

“Hello,” she says before she takes a sip of her beer. It's dark and smooth and she gives him an approving nod. “You haven't either.” 

“Hello,” he replies immediately, grinning. “Why were you late?”

“It was two minutes,” she says, scowling. “I had to walk from where I parked. Besides, you have no leg to stand on here, _Colt_.”

He winces. “Please, just call me Jaime.” 

“If you hate it so much, why don't you just use your real name? Your last name can't be that bad.” 

Jaime takes a sip of his own beer, scanning the crowd. “You'd be surprised,” he mutters. 

“I'm starting to think you might have a mysterious past, Colt,” Brienne says lightly, but Jaime doesn't look amused. 

“Jaime,” he insists, and then gestures at the stage with his beer. “I've heard good things about this guy. Different sound than mine, but the same set-up of one man and his guitar. He's supposed to be on the cusp of something big. I'm counting on you to tell me why.” The same comfortable politeness is back in his voice and this time Brienne can see it take over his whole manner. This isn't the loose, drawling Colt who plays at her bar and snarks at her over whiskey, this is Jaime, who's got a keen-eyed stare and holds himself straight and tense, like someone's spent a lot of time telling him not to slouch. 

Brienne wonders which one is more real. 

“I'll do the best I can,” she says, “but this really isn't something I was trained to do.” 

“Perfect is boring,” he says, and there's Colt again in the slow curl of his smile. “I much prefer imperfect and wild.” 

“I can only promise imperfect,” she murmurs. His wink makes her wonder if wild might not be worth trying sometime. 

The tavern host leaps up onstage and the crowd hoots and cheers as he runs through what is obviously a regular spiel and then introduces the act. Clancy Hughes is handsome enough, and he's got a friendly aura that washes out over the crowd and reaches them even at the back of the club, which is why Brienne had selected this spot. It's easy to get the front row to eat out of your hands, but engaging the back row is where the real performers shine, and Clancy seems to know it. His set is tight and a mix of smooth, jazz-influenced songs with rollicking country standards. When he makes a particularly good joke, Brienne elbows Jaime and says, “See, that was actually funny.” 

Jaime just smirks and keeps watching, and she knows he's cataloguing every element of the show the same as she is. They're here to work, she reminds herself, and she leaves Jaime alone for the rest of the performance, until Clancy gives one final wave after his encore and exits the stage. 

They set their beers down in the glass drop and Jaime motions for her to follow him outside. The sound mix had been excellent, but her ears still pop a little when they step into the cool night air. 

“He was good,” Jaime says as soon as the door closes behind them again. 

“He was great,” she says. “I would've liked to pick up his album.” 

Jaime purses his lips at her. “Should I sell albums?”

“You're getting ahead of yourself there, cowboy. Do you really think you could've played for that crowd?”

“Yes,” he says immediately and Brienne should have known he'd think that. They've talked three times and she can already tell his overconfidence is a problem. 

But he's also not entirely wrong. If he'd played like last night, Jaime could have done well enough for himself here, too. Brienne can also tell he's a better musician than Clancy, though, and when he's ready, Jaime's going to bring down the house. 

“Walk me to my truck and I'll tell you what I saw,” she says. They talk animatedly the two blocks back to her beat-up old truck, and then they talk for another hour in front of it. It starts off with a review of Clancy's set – his song order and banter, the lighting choices and sound mix. Then Jaime asks her about the bar set-up and they talk for awhile about Selwyn's, too, and why she's organized her bar the way she has. It's an effortless discussion, bouncing back and forth between his interests and hers, and Brienne's voice is starting to hurt when a yawn overtakes her, her jaw cracking with it. 

Jaime, who's been talking about the new order for his set list when it happens, goes quiet and then pushes off from where he's been leaning against her truck. “You all right to drive home?” he asks and she jerks her head up, blinking. 

“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Just been a long day, I guess.” It hasn't been, really, unless she counts the fact that she's somewhere outside of her bar or her home, but that's too pathetic to consider. “Finish what you were talking about.”

“I think I've had a soporific enough effect already on you, Barkeep.” 

“That's quite a word calendar you've got.” 

“And you're not even going to get to hear any of the weekend ones, those are always the best.” 

“Oh!” Brienne shakes her head a little, remembering. “Can you play at Selwyn's on Friday?”

“Two days from now? That Friday?” 

“Unless there's a different Friday before that. One of the guys in the audience last night talked to my dad about you. We'll print you a flier.” 

“Well, if there's a _flier_ ,” he says dryly, but his eyes are brighter than they were a moment before. “Do I have to pay?”

“You split ticket sales with the bar. And I'll float you a free whiskey,” she adds. She wants him to play, not just for the bar, but for him, too. He'd changed so much from last Tuesday to this one, she wants to see what he takes from tonight's performance to further work on his own. 

“I think I can clear my busy social calendar,” he says, and winks at her, and she steadfastly ignores the answering flutter in her belly. “Now,” he steps back and gestures to her truck. “Get in and start her up so I can make sure you get home safely.”

“Such a gentleman.”

“Only in very rare circumstances.”

“That, I believe,” she says. It's far too easy to talk to him, these little exchanges that could be flirty if she tilts her head and looks at them sideways. His clear delight makes it more addictive, and she walks around the front of her truck and gets in without even telling him goodbye. Her truck roars to life and he's still standing there watching her, so she leans across the bench seat and rolls the window down. 

“All good,” she tells him. “Your duties have been discharged.” 

“Maybe I wanted to watch you drive away.”

For no reason she can explain, she flushes. “Seven-thirty on Friday, Colt.”

“Jaime,” he reminds her, and she gives him a little wave and drives off.

* * *

Friday nights at Selwyn's are more busy, though they get most of their business Saturday night when the out-of-towners are more likely to stop by. Still, Brienne's on her toes from five onward. There's a steady stream of drink orders and familiar faces to greet, and Jon gets called away to plunge one of the toilets. He's not as quick of a bartender as she is, but it's nice to have his help while he's waiting for the act to arrive, and a small line forms with him gone. 

The door opens yet again and this time Jaime walks in. Her eyes stray to the clock on the wall, an old-fashioned pendulum clock she has to wind regularly. It's just after seven, which means he's early by a lot. He's already looking her way when he steps inside and she takes a minute to catalog his deceptively simple get-up: black jeans, a dark grey cotton t-shirt that looks soft to the touch against the hard muscles of his chest, his hat, and those damn boots. She nods at him because it's all she has time for, and then turns to the next customer in line. 

But even as she keeps people hydrated and happy, she's vividly aware of what Jaime's doing. He sets his guitar case up on stage and then he stops by Goodwin's seat in the front row. There aren't tables on Friday, but rows of folding chairs that she knows from experience are terribly uncomfortable and much easier to store during the week than more expensive, plusher ones. Goodwin always shows up at six and takes a spot in the front row, a routine he's had as long as Brienne can remember. He loves to talk with the acts, judging them heavily on how friendly they are, no matter how good or bad their music. It annoys her since she knows if someone like her were one of those acts they'd fail the Goodwin Test, but her dad holds his opinion in high esteem and now she regrets not warning Jaime of what to expect. Brienne wishes she could hear what they're saying. Whatever it is, it ends with Goodwin laughing cheerfully and the two men shaking hands. Another ten minutes pass while Jaime gets stopped by the normal Tuesday night crowd who apparently got word he was playing. Brienne's never seen them in on Friday before, so the fact they've followed Jaime to a new night is a good sign. 

He's got a light, charming smile as he stands at the end of their row and chats, his thumbs tucked into his pockets, and Brienne wonders if that relaxed stance is calculated or natural. Either way, his fingers drag the eye downward to a place she does not need to linger, and she refocuses on her work with a vengeance. 

Jon comes back and Brienne elbows him when he comes around the bar to help. “Your eight o'clock is here,” she says, and he follows the jut of her chin and sighs in a way she feels in her soul. They haven't talked about dating preferences, but it's hard to miss the way Jon looks at Jaime. 

“You think he's ready for a Friday crowd?” Jon asks. 

“I wouldn't have asked him if I didn't. What do you think?”

“Yeah,” Jon says, sighing again. “I'll go help him get set up.” 

Brienne's busy again with a rush of last-minute arrivals, a sink that's now having some unidentified problem, and people grabbing drinks before the show – so busy she loses track of Jaime, Jon, and the time, until the lights dim and she realizes Jaime is onstage. 

“Good evening, y'all,” he says, twice as confident as he'd been just a few nights before. “I appreciate you coming to the show tonight. Let's try to have a good time.” The crowd hollers in excitement. He's playing to the back row, just like they talked about, and Brienne can feel the force wave of his charisma from her spot at the bar. 

It only gets more intense with the first rich strum of his guitar. 

Jaime has been practicing since Wednesday – not his music, which is almost exactly the same set as it had been last time except for the new finale flip – but everything else. He chats amicably between songs, managing a couple of stories that are funny and humanizing; he confesses to usually messing up the bridge on his new song before he starts it, and she can feel the audience eager to forgive him and then celebrating when he nails it; and he sings about love and loss and living with a vehemence that spills out into the room like a living thing, like he's holding out a hand to dance with each of them individually. And they do: swinging and bouncing in their seats, a few along the walls doing impromptu two-steps to the especially lively tunes. When he drops into a ballad a few songs from the end, Brienne watches the crowd, the way people lay their heads on their partner's shoulders, or wrap their arms around and pull their partner close. 

Brienne wishes she had someone to sway in time with, someone to hold her near and let the music move them. But that's never been hers, and it's only Jaime's aching voice that makes her think it could be. Makes her want to believe someone will wander into the bar and fall in love with her. He finishes the song and the applause is slow to start, like everyone's waking from a shared dream, but when it gets going it's raucous. Jaime's staring at her for the first time that evening, his eyes brilliant even under the brim of his hat. Her breath catches, like it's stumbled over her heart on its way, and Brienne forces herself to give him a golf clap that makes him smirk. 

He finishes strong and when the boot-stomping shakes the rafters, he hops back up on stage for an encore. 

“I really didn't have anything planned for this,” he admits on a laugh, and Brienne believes him. “I guess I'll do another new song.” 

Jaime bites his lip and his gaze flickers to Brienne again. She nods encouragingly. Jaime takes a breath and launches into a tune that tiptoes sweetly through the expectant room. So far Jaime's songs have been many things: rugged and desperate, fun and lovestruck. But this one is delicate, a butterfly of a song that flits around and rests with tender feet in her chest. Brienne would never have expected it from him, and certainly wouldn't have thought he could pull it off in a way that was believable. But there is something about the rough edge of his voice that hits harder when he softens it, like seeing a hidden room opening to show a secret dream world inside. When he brings the song to an end with a trilling chord, Brienne sighs a little as the door closes. She thinks she hears it echoed by others in the room, and then they're all applauding too loudly to hear anything else. 

Brienne and Jaime are both swarmed after that, and it takes an hour before the bar clears out and Jaime walks over to where she's stacking dirty glasses. 

“Nice show, Colt,” she says in greeting, mildly enjoying the way he winces at the name. If he's going to insist on using it, she's going to keep calling him by it. It's much safer than using his real name when no one else does. 

“Barkeep,” he says in that low drawl that shivers down her spine. “Any notes tonight?” 

“Can you do it again?”

“Do what?” he asks, taking a seat and setting his guitar case on the bar. 

“Have a night like this? It was a great show,” she says, all sincerity, and Jaime lights up. “You need to have more great shows than bad ones. So can you do it again?”

“Invite me back and I'll show you.”

Brienne nods. “You busy next Friday?”

“I don't know. Are you busy next Wednesday?”

“No, I'm off. Every Monday and Wednesday.” 

Jaime lays his hands on the bar, and she studies the trimmed nails, the veins running like small rivers down his hand. “Will you come to another show with me, then? I want to be at my best for Friday.”

“What if I say no?” she asks, but there's a low rush of blood in her ears and she already knows she's going to say yes. 

“Then I'm not sure I can play on Friday – I'd be too afraid of public humiliation. You come with me on Wednesday, and I'll be at my best on Friday.”

He's too much of everything: too flirty, too handsome, too confident. She doesn't even know his real last name. Brienne should not, in any way, spend more time with him outside of the safe confines of the bar. 

“Fine, but this time I pick the venue,” she says anyway, and his triumphant smile sends her stomach jumping, thrilled and nervous both. 

“It's a date,” he says carelessly.

She knows it's not, though, and never will be.


	4. See if I care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But it's the quiet after the concerts on Friday that Brienne looks forward to the most. She's busy for awhile after and so is he – three weeks into it he asks for a merch table to sell hastily pressed CDs of his original set of songs, and lines start to form to talk to him there even as the last note is still reverberating in the air. So it's not until the bar is nearly closed down that Jaime finally extricates himself from the women who hug him a little too tightly during their selfies and the men who talk at length trying to gain his approval or friendship. He never leaves, no matter how late it is, until after he talks to her.

It becomes a routine. 

On Wednesdays, Brienne goes to a different venue with Jaime to watch musical acts at or above where he's at on his path right now. They talk afterward – ranging over a slowly expanding array of subjects over coffee instead of outside in the cold – and he walks her back to her truck every time and watches until she drives away. On Friday, he arrives at Selwyn's a little before seven, but no matter how early he arrives, he never has time to talk to her before his set. Jaime comes in dressed in the same casual garb as anyone attending, but the moment he steps in the door it's like the air itself swirls around him, and he's immediately approached by his fans. 

There is an expectant atmosphere on Fridays that has never been there before, and a crowd that grows bigger and more enthusiastic every week. If it keeps growing, it will bypass their Saturday nights soon enough. 

Every last cheer is earned, though. Jaime is a quick study of the other acts, and his ability to assess what works and adapt it for himself is astonishing. She'll watch a show with him on Wednesday and on Friday he's polished to an even brighter shine. More surprisingly: he listens to her advice with intent, arguing the points he disagrees with but coming around to her side more often than not. He respects the experience she's gained growing up in a bar filled with performers, and his arrogance extends only to himself and never her. 

But it's the quiet after the concerts on Friday that Brienne looks forward to the most. She's busy for awhile after and so is he – three weeks into it he asks for a merch table to sell hastily pressed CDs of his original set of songs, and lines start to form to talk to him there even as the last note is still reverberating in the air. So it's not until the bar is nearly closed down that Jaime finally extricates himself from the women who hug him a little too tightly during their selfies and the men who talk at length trying to gain his approval or friendship. He never leaves, no matter how late it is, until after he talks to her. She has his glass of whiskey ready for him when he sits down, and she gives him notes, although six weeks into it, her only remaining note is: use your real name. Jaime refuses every time, with the same, unyielding _no_. 

It's not all smooth sailing, of course. There's the night where he breaks three strings on his guitar and looks like he's ready to throw the entire thing away, before he sets it down and gets the club to sing an a capella version of “Amazing Grace” with him. Or the night where he shows up late and never hits his stride, though he bulls through as best he can. The nights when he forgets a lyric or starts a song in the wrong key, and then recovers with an airy, self-deprecating charm. 

And then there's tonight, when a very drunk heckler harasses Jaime through half the set, and though he tries to keep up a pleasant front, Brienne sees Jaime's getting more flustered by the second. Selwyn's doesn't have a bouncer; her dad had always been enough on that front, and then Galladon when he was old enough, which means now she's taken on that responsibility from her brother, too. But this one she's actually good at, and when she tugs the already-stumbling man to the side he yanks his arm out of her light grip and nearly goes sprawling to the floor. 

“Don't you fucking touch me!” the man roars, and Jaime abruptly stands, setting his guitar down with a force that echoes through the strings. Brienne shakes her head at Jaime and he stills, but his fists are balled at his sides. 

“Either leave my bar on your own, or I'll make you leave,” she tells the drunk softly. She doesn't do it to be threatening, she mostly just wants everyone to stop staring at her, even though she knows it's too late for that. There's a chorus of whispers in the crowd. 

“Make me,” the man slurs, so she does. It's not hard – he can barely function, let alone fight back – but he's not a small man, and she has to put some effort into lifting him nearly off his feet to get him up and out of the bar as quickly as possible. Jon's already got the door open for her, and she throws the man out into the gravel. 

There's a flash as Jon takes a picture of the man's scrunched up face. “Your photo's going on our Wall of Shame,” Jon informs him. 

“Don't come back,” she adds grimly. The man spits into the dirt, but directed enough away from her that Brienne lets it slide. Per their protocol, Jon has already called a taxi, so she waits out front with the man until it arrives a few minutes later, makes sure he gets in and then she takes another minute to breathe the night air in deeply. It's getting warmer all the time as the year charges into late spring, and the low hum of insects is its own kind of music. 

When she finally goes back inside, Jaime is finishing up his set. It's not his best, and the crowd gives a subdued round of applause, not even enough for an encore. He stalks over to the bar after talking to a few of his regular fans, and glares at her when she hands him a whiskey. 

“You didn't have to do that,” he says first, and Brienne crosses her arms over her chest. She should have assumed he'd be the type of man that's offended by a woman who can take care of herself, but she's disappointed to have it confirmed nonetheless. 

“You mean save your show?” she snaps back. 

“Put yourself in danger.” 

“Danger?” Brienne laughs, startled. “From _him_? He could barely stand up.”

“Drunk people – drunk _men_ – can be unpredictable. I was handling it.” 

“You were letting him walk all over you, Colt.”

Jaime doesn't look amused at all, not the way he usually does about everything they've ever talked about. The laughter he seems to always be holding back has retreated, and it's not Colt or the more business-like Jaime she's seen before, but the man she suspects he might truly be under both. He's not angry when he speaks next, he's quiet and serious. “I don't want you to get hurt. Not for me.” 

Brienne doesn't feel amused any longer either, not with the way Jaime's looking at her like she's important. “It's my job,” she stammers after a minute. 

They stare at each other over the bar. The people talking and moving around behind Jaime fade into a blurry white noise, but he is as in focus as ever; his eyes and his lips and the way his hands press flat into the surface of the bar like he's holding himself in place. She doesn't know what he's keeping his body from doing, where his fingers want to go, but his gaze is heavy on her skin. 

Finally he grabs the whiskey and downs half of it and Brienne remembers to breathe. 

“I can't have my coach out of commission,” he says, the words tasting like a sour twist of lemon as she drinks them down. 

“God forbid,” Brienne tells him, before she pours herself a shot, too. It doesn't help her forget the look on his face, but it helps her accept it didn't really mean a thing.

* * *

A few months after she'd first seen Jaime perform, Brienne knows he can't keep playing at Selwyn's, no matter how much the bar needs it. He's ready for the Nashville clubs, and he has to know it. Tonight's performance had been worthy of an arena stage and when Jaime finally comes to sit down, his shirt is unbuttoned an extra button and sweat still shines on his chest and Brienne cannot believe how dirty her bar is, she needs to clean it with intense focus. 

“Whiskey, barkeep,” he says, and she shoves his glass towards him while she rubs at a spot on the bar she's fairly certain is just the whorl of the wood grain but she needs to be sure. 

“Got any notes for me?” he asks. Jaime sounds wrung out with pleasure and it's not difficult to imagine that voice somewhere other than the bar. 

Brienne swallows and meets his gaze. His eyes are always so bright, even in the shadow of his hat. “No,” she says, for the first time ever. “I don't.” 

Jaime's smirk slides away. “What, really? I haven't changed my name, what about that?”

“You're not going to, and it obviously doesn't matter to your fans.” 

“I don't have fans,” he scoffs, “I have thirsty people who like music.” 

“Jaime,” she sighs, and she can feel the way he leans a little towards her when she uses his real name. She tries not to, both because she likes to needle him and also it still feels too personal. “You shouldn't be playing in an old dive bar outside of the city. You need to start playing weekends in Nashville. You're ready.” 

“I'm not,” he insists, frowning at her. “I completely failed to tell everybody goodnight after the encore. That kind of rudeness can't stand, I have to play at least three more times here.” 

Brienne snorts. “Trust me, you could have spit on them and they would have thought it was a gift. You're like a fish that's outgrown its pond. Time to jump into the ocean.” 

“Can I give _you_ notes? Because that is a terrible analogy.” 

“Shut up,” she says, but she laughs and he's beaming at her as if she's given him a gift. “But you know I'm right, Colt.” 

Jaime's lips crease into a small, frustrated bow. “It's only been two months. I'm still a neophyte.”

“You're going to have to find someone else to use your ten-dollar words on, cowboy,” she says, forcing a grin. 

“What about the bar?” he asks. 

“We'll be fine here without you. You're not the only singer-songwriter in the area.”

“But I'm the best you've got.”

Brienne straightens, glaring at him, annoyed that he's right – the lines around her father's eyes _have_ seemed a little shallower the last month with Jaime's growing reputation. “Maybe Nashville will be good for you,” she snaps defensively. “Deflate that oversized ego of yours a little.” 

“You're the one kicking me out! I wanted to stay.” 

“Then stay,” she says, her voice loud in the mostly empty space. Jon looks up from where he's putting away the audio equipment, the only other person there. Brienne shakes her head a little at him and he gives her a sympathetic smile and gets back to work. He doesn't try to hit on Jaime anymore, and though the two men have formed a loose working relationship, he sympathizes with Brienne when she complains about Colt Thunder. 

“I will!”

“Fine.”

Jaime throws back the rest of his whiskey and thunks the glass loudly back down. This is not the first time they've ended a night like this. Three weeks ago, Jaime had stormed out when she'd said his CD photo needed work and then refused to go with him to take a new picture. She might have called him a baby, which she's not proud of in retrospect. But he'd called the bar from his truck in the parking lot making sure they were still on for the following Wednesday.

“It's your turn to pick the venue,” he says now as he stands, grabbing his guitar case. “And pencil me in again for next Friday, and the Fridays after that.”

“You can't stay here forever,” she says quietly. “You've got to play in Nashville.” 

“Then I'll do it on Saturdays, but Fridays, I'm here.” 

Brienne nods and he tugs on the brim of his hat, settling it lower over his eyes before he stalks out the door. She watches the door longer than she should, and he doesn't call her again that night.

* * *

On Wednesday, Jaime still seems distant when they meet in front of the venue she's picked. 

“Hello, Brienne,” he says in an oddly formal greeting, and she arches her eyebrows and pretends to look around. “What are you doing?” he asks with a sigh. 

“Looking for Colt Thunder, have you seen him? About six-two, decent-looking, kind of an ass.”

Jaime makes a face and opens the door. “When are you going to call me Jaime?” 

“When you tell me your last name,” she says, walking inside. He huffs and follows her in. 

The Whiskey Bent Saloon is already packed, the crowd bright and talkative as they storm the bar and chat over the music. Brienne nudges Jaime towards an open space within sight of the stage and then leaves him there, though she can see by the way a small group of women near them are looking, he probably won't be alone for long. Normally she makes him get the first round of drinks, because he so easily attracts attention with his smile, but he's not the only one who's been learning on their outings and she's feeling too edgy to just stand and wait tonight. At every venue, Brienne watches how bartenders handle their rushes, so much bigger than they ever get at Selwyn's; studies the way they organize their alcohol and materials, how they pour drinks for speed and economy. Whiskey Bent moves people through fast, and the bartenders – two college-aged, cheerful young women – give everyone shimmering smiles when they approach. 

The woman that takes her order gives Brienne the same smile, and Brienne admires how unfazed she is by everything that's happening. Of course, it's only a Wednesday, and Whiskey Bent is barely three-quarters full. It must be a madhouse on weekends. Just the kind of crowd that Jaime deserves to play in front of. 

When she returns to him with drinks in hand, he's got two women lingering near and chatting amiably. They're pretty, of course; so many of the women are, and all of them are prettier than she is. Made-up and dressed in form-fitting jeans, hair done just right, confident and experienced in ways Brienne never is when she's out from behind the protection of her bar. 

She hesitates a few steps away, and Jaime lifts his head and sees her. 

“Here she is now,” she hears him say and Brienne takes a deep breath and moves nearer. He takes his drink from her hand, his fingers brushing hers, and tips the glass her way in thanks. “Brienne, this is Jeyne and Maia.”

“Nice to meet you,” she says and the women smile, looking disappointed before they make some excuse to return to their group. “Seems like they weren't interested in making any new female friends.” 

“No, I imagine they wouldn't be, especially not with you. I told them you were my girlfriend,” he says casually, before taking a sip of his whiskey while Brienne gapes at him. 

“Why the hell did you tell them that?” she whispers fiercely. She can feel the embarrassment flooding from her ears, across her cheeks, and down to her chest where her heart greets it with a swift pounding beat. 

“Because I didn't feel like fighting off their advances all night.” His gaze flicks over her face, follows the red of the blush to the edge of her tank top. “You don't have to look so horrified; it's not real.” 

“I'm not horrified,” she protests. “I just don't see how anyone would believe it.” 

Jaime lifts an eyebrow but doesn't disagree, taking another slow drink, and mercifully lets the whole subject drop. He asks a few questions about tonight's act, and then the opener is on and he's all business again, intent and observant, his glass forgotten in his hand. Usually Brienne enjoys watching him study the acts – he looks like a bird of prey surveying his hunting grounds – but she keeps looking at the women. They're engaged in the music when it's playing, but she doesn't miss their sidelong glances in-between songs, the way they're sizing Brienne up and finding her pitiful competition. 

When the set is over, she slouches back against the wall at Jaime's side and frowns down at the fruity mixed drink she'd decided to try. The ice in it has melted and it's too watered down now to taste like more than bland fruit punch. 

“I'm gonna get a new drink before the main act,” she says, leaning near, but Jaime grabs her arm as she turns to go. 

“Let me do it. I'll get you something decent instead of whatever the hell that was.” He lifts the glass out of her hand before she can do more than make a face at him, and then he's gone, leaving her alone with her back to the wall and the sea of excited concertgoers in front of her. 

Jeyne – or Maia, Brienne's really not sure – sidles up next to her. She's shorter than Brienne by nearly a foot, cute with a perky nose. “So, you and Colt, huh?” 

Brienne laughs a little internally that Jaime's given them his stage name. She doesn't know how he manages to do it with a straight face, or that anyone ever believes it. “Apparently so,” she says. 

“How'd you two meet?”

“At a bar,” Brienne offers, pretending to stretch a little for an excuse to check out where Jaime is in line. Already at the front and being served. She's unsurprised. 

“Been together long?” Maia or Jeyne presses. Brienne knows what's happening here, and she's already exhausted enough by it she considers just telling the other woman that it's all made up. Except there is a small, petty part of Brienne that's enjoying the thought of driving this woman crazy by letting her think she and Jaime really are dating. Brienne decides to lean into it, because he's not here to make fun of her for it later, and he started the whole stupid idea in the first place. 

“Not too long, but we're so happy,” she gushes. “He's completely devoted to me. I'm sure you know how it is with your boyfriend, when they think the whole world revolves around you.” 

“Yeah,” Jeyne-Maia says dimly. “That new love flush. He's really into you, huh?”

“Extremely. We have to keep our hands off of each other when we're in public or who knows what will happen,” she confides with a conspiratorial grin, and Maia-Jeyne does not return it. “We've already been thrown out of a place after being caught in the bathroom. Selwyn's – have you heard of it?”

The other woman shakes her head, no, and her gaze shifting just over Brienne's shoulder is all the warning Brienne has before Jaime is there again, standing much nearer than he had been before. Two small spots of heat flare in her cheeks as she hopes he didn't overhear her lies. 

“Enjoying the show, Maia?” he asks. Of course he knows her name; Jaime remembers the name of every person he's ever met as far as Brienne can tell. 

“It's been good,” Maia says. “Brienne was telling me about the two of you.”

“Was she now?” he murmurs and Brienne does not, somehow, melt into the floor to avoid what she knows is coming next. “What _did_ you tell her, darlin'?” 

Brienne takes the beer he's gotten for her and chugs a long swallow, but it neither helps nor distracts. Nor, unfortunately, does it magically transport her back to her truck. “You know,” she says weakly. “Just how great it's been.” 

“It has been a wonderful couple of months,” Jaime says, far too earnestly. “Maia, you've reminded me there's something we love to do that we can never find the time for.” Brienne eyes him warily when he takes her beer back and holds both cups towards the other woman. “Maybe you could help us by watching our drinks?” 

“Uh, I guess,” Maia says, taking them and juggling their two with hers. Brienne makes a note not to drink hers when she gets it back, certain Maia will have spit in it. 

“What are you thinking, _Colt_?” Brienne asks, entirely missing sweet and instead hitting somewhere around panicked anger. 

“I was thinking that we haven't been line dancing, _Brienne_ ,” Jaime responds, and though his tone is sugary, there's a sharp bite to the undertone that makes her shiver. He circles her wrist with his fingers, the tips roughened from his guitar. “Come on.” 

The Whiskey Bent is big enough that there are different, distinct areas – the crowded bar, the stage and sardine-like standing-room-only floor, and a wider space to the side where a line dance has been steadily growing. Brienne's not sure how long before the main act comes on, but no one here seems to care if it takes all night, by the smiles and hollers as the two uneven lines of people stomp, clap, shuffle, and turn together. 

“We don't have to do this,” Brienne insists as she and Jaime pause at the edge of the small circle of spectators. 

“Do you know how to line dance?” he asks, curious. 

“Of course I do. Do you?” 

His mouth tugs into a confident grin. “Let's find out.” 

He jumps into the line with clear delight, tucking his thumbs into his pockets and watching the footwork of the woman next to him for a moment, moving his feet hesitantly at first through a rotation, laughing a little at himself when he turns in entirely the wrong direction; but on the second pass he's nearly got it. The third time through, he looks like he's been there all night, his long legs sliding and stepping with ease. Brienne spends far too long watching the rocking sway of his hips before she looks up and catches him smiling knowingly at her. 

“Come here,” he shouts at Brienne, and the woman next to him, an older lady with buckets of curly hair and thickly-applied lipstick, waves encouragingly. 

Brienne's grown up with line-dancing, and she loves the community feel of it when everyone is moving in time, but she doesn't do it outside of Selwyn's anymore. She doesn't like everyone watching her, waiting for her to galumph around or otherwise make a fool of herself. Jaime opens his eyes very wide and pleading, the worst fake-puppy dog look she's ever seen, but it works on her anyway. At least people will mostly be watching him instead of her. 

“Fine,” she grumbles, not that he can hear her, and she joins him at the end of the line, watching his feet now. She's already been marking the patterns as she waited, so it only takes her half a turn before she's got it, and when she clicks her boot heel down in time with Jaime and the rest of them, she meets his eyes and they grin happily at each other. 

Brienne stumbles a bit and Jaime's hand goes to her waist, steadying her with a firm grip. “Watch yourself, darlin',” he laughs, but it's light and fun, no mocking in it, and Brienne laughs a little, too. They sink back into the pattern and when the line turns a quarter turn, Jaime gives an extra little shimmy of his broad shoulders that makes her laugh loudly. He looks back over his shoulder at her, eyes crinkled with pleasure, and the next time they turn again, Brienne kicks her heel out in a fancy double-tap that has him laughing this time. 

It's _fun_ , and when the song rolls seamlessly into the next, she stays out there without him having to ask. 

The view is good, too. There's a slight sheen of sweat visible just under his hat at his temples; he keeps turning that toothpaste commercial smile her way; and every time she's facing his back, she watches it arch and twist with the music and gets a little warmer herself, until she has to strip off her flannel top before she melts in the crowd. She does it when she's facing away, wrapping it smoothly around her waist as they move into the next quarter turn, and when she looks over at Jaime to make sure they're still in time, he's staring at her with a look like she's slapped him in the face. Brienne hesitates, losing the beat, and the person in front of her nearly steps on her foot. 

“Sorry,” she mumbles, falling back out of the line. Jaime follows her, narrow-eyed and intense. 

The music cuts out abruptly and the dancers come to a halt with a good-natured grumble as the lights go down for the main act. 

Jaime doesn't even seem to notice, still studying her, eyes vivid green even in the dimness. 

“The show's starting,” she stammers. She feels like she's being surveyed by a hungry predator. 

“I know,” he says, low and coiled, ready to strike. 

Onstage the lights flash and the cheer of the crowd followed by an enthusiastic guitar chord cut out any hope of further conversation. It's fine with her; she can barely breathe anything but his scent even in the crowded bar, and it's making her dizzy. 

“I'll be right back,” she tells him, before she escapes back to the bar to pour herself a complimentary water and drink the entire thing down. Once she's feeling more herself, Brienne pulls her flannel shirt back on over her tank-top and finds Jaime in the crowd. He glances briefly at her as she stands at his side, but whatever had overcome him seems to have gone again, and he's all business once more. 

Brienne forces herself to focus, too. They didn't come here to dance and have a good time. It's work, just as much as tending the bar. The musical act is good, but not as good as Jaime is, and when they emerge later to talk quietly about it on the walk to her truck, he knows it, too. 

“Not really any reason to linger over this one,” Brienne says when her truck's in sight. “We should probably just call it a night.” 

Jaime purses his lips, tilts his head back at the sky and nods. “Yeah, probably.” 

They stop at her truck, and Brienne doesn't want the night to end like this. Except for the line dancing it's been awkward between them this evening, like they're both trying to peer through different slats in a fence, never quite connecting. Even when they've argued before it's been mostly a game, not this feeling like they don't even know each other. 

Of course, they don't. Neither of them knows where the other one lives, they don't talk outside of these outings or on Fridays, she has no idea what he does all week when he's not Colt Thunder. She doesn't even know his real last name, and he seems uninterested in telling her. Whatever this is between them, it's barely even friendship, and when Jaime starts playing Nashville, it won't be long until he finally realizes he's only hurting his career by limiting his Fridays to Selwyn's. And then he'll be gone, too, just like Galladon. 

“Jaime-” she starts, ready to set him free then and there, but he cuts her off. 

“I'll see you Friday.” 

“You don't have to.”

“Get in the truck, Brienne.”

A spark flares in her heart, sharp and painful as a bite, and just as likely to annoy her for days. Brienne climbs in, slamming the door behind her. Mulishly, she doesn't roll down the window to say goodbye like she usually does, but he's still standing there, watching her, when she looks for him in her rear-view mirror as she drives away.


	5. I got way too close that time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even though Brienne is not actually there, she annoys him all through the next two days. 
> 
> If Jaime were feeling generous, he would admit it wasn't her fault, but mostly he's just feeling frustrated and irritated, so he heaps all of the blame at her large feet. He can't even fully escape via music, because she's become so entwined in every note he plays that he can feel her just at the edge of his vision; a pale, judging ghost. There are ways to exorcise her from his life, but he doesn't want that, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayofandomthings drew [a phenomenal couple of sketches](https://twitter.com/ayofandomthings/status/1314430902026469377?s=20) capturing the line dance scene from last chapter! 
> 
> And I finally put together a [Gary Allan Starter Pack playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3gMTeYFEEGDqfG0QwqzFNc?si=VwkGxMHESPOJpjtMQfBIVQ) over on Spotify. These are 10 of my favorite GA songs that give a good sense of how he sounds, and Jaime's sound is based fairly heavily off of him. 
> 
> Thank you all for your enthusiasm for this story; I did not expect it and I'm really grateful. <3

Even though Brienne is not actually there, she annoys him all through the next two days. 

If Jaime were feeling generous, he would admit it wasn't her fault, but mostly he's just feeling frustrated and irritated, so he heaps all of the blame at her large feet. He can't even fully escape via music, because she's become so entwined in every note he plays that he can feel her just at the edge of his vision; a pale, judging ghost. There are ways to exorcise her from his life, but he doesn't want that, either. 

What he wants, at least on this particular Thursday night, is to make some progress on a song that's been hiding from him for the last few weeks. It's a new one, with a melody so beautiful he's afraid he's stolen it, and not a single lyric to make it whole. It's elusive as a shy deer, and though he gets glimpses of what the song might be about, once he tries to put it down on paper it disappears into the mist again. 

So far he's got a few words, each one worse than the last. Jaime kicks his bare heel back against the couch and tries again. The instrumental part is almost done already, so he can't even distract himself with working on that instead. 

He hums the melody and looks at the words he's scribbled. A few days ago he'd woken in the middle of the night to write them down, and now he wishes he could remember what the hell he'd been thinking. 

“What rhymes with translucent?” he asks Belle. She groans at him from his favorite armchair that she's not supposed to be in. 

“Very helpful, thank you.” 

Belle doesn't even open her eyes. 

She's six years old, some sort of hound mix; cream-colored, with brown markings along the top of her back, on her tail, and covering one ear and one eye. When her eyes are open – which isn't often, lazy dog – they're brown and friendly and intelligent. He rescued her from the pound five years ago when Tyrion had suggested he find a woman, and now she's the love of his life. 

“You and Brienne should meet,” he tells her. “You'll get on famously annoying me.” 

Jaime puts his guitar aside and stands, stretching his arms wide. Belle continues to ignore him, until he moves towards the kitchen, when she finally lifts her head, watching him with perked-forward ears. 

“You're embarrassingly predictable,” he chides her, but when he comes back with a beer for himself, he's got a piece of roast chicken for her, too, which he tosses her way. She doesn't catch it, letting it fall onto the quality leather her paws are resting on before she slurps it up. 

Belle gives him a hopeful look for a second treat, but Jaime flops back down on the couch, so she sighs and resumes her intense napping regimen. He envies her her simple life: no worrying about a job she hates, or a career she'd once wanted that might be in reach again, or a woman with eyes as blue and open as the midwest summer skies. 

Not that Jaime's _worrying_ about Brienne. And he's definitely not fixating on how freely happy she'd looked when they were line-dancing, or the shine of her skin from the exertion, or the way her shoulder muscles had bunched and rolled when she'd taken off her flannel in the world's most unintentional strip-tease. She's a big woman – tall and broad – but vaguely assuming there's muscle under her clothes and actually seeing them at work had been a decisively different experience. Jaime's not used to having such a visceral response to someone, but when she'd done a twisting heel-turn, his mouth had gone dry and he'd had the sudden, unasked-for image of what her back might look like naked, what it might feel like if he put his hands all over it. 

He hadn't recovered well from that mental picture. He still hasn't, if he's honest, which is most of the reason behind his frustration. 

So here he is now: trying not to think about Brienne and failing miserably. 

_Maybe I should write a song about_ her, he thinks dryly. _A woman as big as Montana, with a stubborn streak to match._

Jaime's not writing much of anything right now, though, and his notebook continues to mock him with the false starts he's already attempted. Belle's already back to snoring. He resigns himself to adding this night to a string of boring nights just like it. He's had weeks and months and years of these, but they bother him more now that he's got something to compare them to again: the Fridays in front of a crowd and the Wednesdays as part of one. Jaime had thought the music he'd played for himself would be enough for the rest of his life, but he's addicted once more to the heat of the stage lights and the noise of the audience. To earning Brienne's pleased smiles. 

“Stop it,” he mutters out loud to himself. Belle's ear twitches. 

Giving up the evening for lost, Jaime puts his guitar away and turns on some mindless television, eventually falling asleep in front of the flickering screen. He's not surprised to wake in the morning having dreamed of Brienne, his body still buzzing with the memory of her, sweat-soaked and sliding in his grasp.

* * *

That night, Jaime's already later than he wanted, having gotten stuck in his father's office at work while they went meticulously through a report that could have waited until Monday. His pet sitter, Arya, is late, too. He's tugging on his jeans when his cell phone rings. 

“Hello?” he asks, tucking the phone against his shoulder while he zips up. 

“Hey, it's Arya. Did you get my messages?”

“What? No?” He nearly drops the phone as he tries to get his belt on with one hand and look at his messages with the other. He sees the text notifications now; he'd been so rushed to get to Selwyn's on time that he'd blown past them. “It's okay if you're late, you have a key. Belle doesn't mind walking at night.”

“That's what the texts were telling you – I can't make it at all.”

Jaime stumbles to a halt. “Not at _all_?”

“There's been a family emergency, I'm flying out tonight. My back-up's not available either, I'm sorry. I tried.” 

“It's okay,” he says in a daze. “I'll figure something out. I hope everything's all right.”

“Yeah, me too,” she says. “Bye.” 

Jaime looks down at his phone and frowns. Now what the hell is he going to do? Knowing it's almost certainly a lost cause, he calls Tyrion, but it goes straight to voicemail. 

He doesn't bother to try Cersei or his father. 

Pulling on his shirt and hastily buttoning it, Jaime racks his brain for someone from work or one of the neighbors he's never really bothered to get to know that he'd trust to watch Belle, and comes up empty. She's awake and keeping an alert eye on him as he hurries around the apartment gathering his things. 

“I guess I've only got one choice,” he sighs. He dials Selwyn's, hating to cancel so last-minute on Brienne, but not sure what else to do. 

The line goes straight to voicemail, which then helpfully informs him it's full. 

“You've got to be kidding me,” he groans. Belle sits up in the chair, staring eagerly at him. He absolutely will not cancel without a word, but he can't leave Belle alone all night after she'd been alone all day already. 

There's really only one thing to do about it. Jaime goes for the leash and Belle leaps off the chair, scrambling to the door and sitting politely. Arya had taught her that. He clips the leash on and she wags her tail, her whole butt wiggling with excitement. 

“I expect you to be on your best behavior,” he tells her, before grabbing his guitar case and leading Belle out the door.

* * *

The parking lot is almost full when Jaime pulls in and parks at the back. It's nearly showtime; he hasn't been this late since the first day, but he'd had to take time to walk Belle around and make sure she'd gone to the bathroom so she didn't pee in his truck on the drive. He stares at Belle, who stares back from her spot next to him in the passenger seat of his truck. Her tail thumps softly against the door. 

“Please don't destroy anything while I'm gone.”

Belle's mouth drops open in a happy smile, her tongue lolling out. 

“I don't trust you,” he informs her, but she doesn't seem to care. 

He leans over to kiss her nose and she licks him clean across the mouth. Jaime laughs and gets out of the truck, locking her in with the windows rolled down a bit. It's a cool night, or he wouldn't have considered leaving her here for even a minute; he's broken a window on someone else's car before to rescue an overheating dog inside. 

Footsteps crunching as he hustles over the gravel, Jaime opens the now-familiar door to Selwyn's and feels the same wave of welcome anticipation he always does these days. It's starting to feel a little like home, especially when he catches Brienne's eye as he steps inside. Though instead of the warm smile she usually has, she's frowning and tense when their eyes meet. 

She gestures to Jon, who looks over, too, and exhales with noticeable relief. 

“Cutting it close today,” he says when he meets Jaime at the stage. “Brienne thought you weren't coming.” 

“I almost didn't,” he says. “I had something I had to take care of first.” It feels a bit silly to say it's his dog, so he throws himself into sound check without further comment. 

Once the concert starts, Jaime can already tell it's not going to be his best night. He's distracted with worry about what Belle might be getting up to – is she howling loud enough to set off car alarms? is she anxious trapped in his truck? – but also about the way Brienne won't even look at him. Usually he can count on at least a brief point of connection with her, and often she watches most of his set, but all he can catch is her profile lit by the faerie lights. Tacking being almost late onto how they'd left things on Wednesday is bad luck that needs fixing, and as soon as he's finished the last song and judges the crowd can do without an encore, he leaps down from the stage and makes his way to the bar as quick as he can. 

It's not fast enough, and even though he says he'll be at the merch table in a few, he's towing a few people behind him like he's chumming for sharks. When he finally gets to the bar, staring intently at Brienne the entire time even though she won't return it, Lysa Arryn pushes up next to him. 

“Great show,” she coos, and Jaime gives her a tight-lipped smile at the polite lie. 

“What can I get you, Lysa?” Brienne asks, and the other woman leans into Jaime, her hand on his forearm. 

“You should serve Colt first, I'm sure he's parched after all of that growly singing.” 

Brienne's mouth twitches and Jaime feels a flare of hope when she nods at him. “Colt?”

“I'd rather talk to you,” he says, and Lysa's fingers dig into his arm a little. He tries to gently shake her off, but she holds her grip. “Explain why I was late.” 

“You weren't late,” Brienne says tersely. “Do you want a drink or not?”

“I had to deal with...” Jaime glances at Lysa. He very much doesn't want her to think he's in any way open to her come-ons, but he also wants Brienne to know it had nothing to do with Wednesday. If he says he didn't have anyone to look after his dog, Lysa will think he's asking her to do it. “Someone,” he finally tells Brienne. 

“Is this your special someone?” Lysa asks with keen interest. 

Shit. He recalls telling her that now, weeks ago. “Yep,” he says brightly, and Lysa's hand slips from his arm. But it's the look on Brienne's face that brings him up short. She's even more upset than she had been a moment ago, her wide mouth curved down. 

“If Colt's not thirsty, I will take a refresh,” Lysa says, and Jaime watches Brienne work and tries to figure out what the hell is going on. Eventually Lysa swans off again, and Brienne gets swallowed by the post-concert requests and tab closings. He promises the people waiting for him at the table he'll be right back and runs out to check on Belle – sleeping, naturally – and then runs back to chat with a few fans and sell a few albums until the bar is nearly empty. Only then does he once more approach Brienne. 

“Got any notes for me tonight, Barkeep?” he asks, taking one of the stools. 

Brienne keeps writing on her little pad of paper, a dish towel slung over one broad shoulder. He's seen that shoulder bare, knows that freckles dot all along it with carefree abandon. Very unlike Brienne right now, rigid and contained as she is. 

“It wasn't a great show,” she says and Jaime would be offended if she weren't entirely right.

It does still hurt a little to hear, though. 

“Very perspicacious of you,” he drawls and he can see her trying to squash her own amusement. 

“Do you use those words on your special someone?” she asks instead, and Jaime lifts his brows, surprised at the twist underneath her light tone. 

“I try, but she's not smart enough to understand them.”

Brienne finally, finally looks right at him, and he hadn't truly appreciated how much he likes seeing all of her – how much he likes her seeing him – until this moment, awash in the blue dawn of her eyes. Her very disapproving eyes. 

“You shouldn't say that about your... whoever she is.” 

Jaime bites his lower lip to keep from laughing. “Trust me, she wouldn't mind. Would you like to see a picture of her? You can tell for yourself.”

“I'm not going to make fun of someone who isn't even here.” 

“Oh, she's here,” he says, pulling out his phone and scrolling to his favorites. He's got what's probably a shameful amount of Belle photos saved, so it's easy to find a good one. “I left her in my truck.”

“Why didn't you just bring her inside? Embarrassed to show her where you play every Friday?” Brienne's bark is a lot more intimidating than Belle's and Jaime hurries to show her the photo.

“Mostly I didn't want her to pee all over your floor,” he says. 

Brienne opens her mouth – likely to chew him out – but when she glances down at the phone she goes quiet. 

“This is Lulabelle,” Jaime says proudly. “Mostly I call her Belle, except when she's in trouble.”

“She's a dog.”

“I sometimes wonder if she's not actually a sloth, but yes, they told me she was a dog when I took her home.” 

Brienne looks at him, and her cheeks are round and pink with her smile. “She's beautiful.” 

“Do you want to meet her?” he asks. “I've told her all about you.” 

That earns a wash of red all over Brienne's face, highlighting her broken nose and strong chin. Jaime suddenly, desperately wants to press his lips there where the color has gathered, and he quickly looks down at his phone. 

“You don't have to,” he tells her, just as she says, “I'd love to.” 

They both chuckle a bit and he slides off of the stool. “Come on then, she's waiting outside.” 

It's not a long walk to the truck, but Jaime spends every step of it wondering if he should talk to Brienne about Wednesday, if he should just yank her into her arms and kiss her and hope for the best, if he should tell her who he really is and pray she understands why he can't be that man here. He doesn't do any of those things, and Belle is waiting with her nose pressed against the driver's side window when they walk up. She barks sharply a few times, her welcome back tone. 

“Oh, look at her,” Brienne sighs happily. Jaime lets Belle out and she leaps gracefully to the ground. Brienne kneels to greet her, scratching her chest in a way that has Belle arching her head up in ecstasy. “Hello there. It's nice to meet you,” she tells Belle seriously, and Jaime's heart thuds like a bass drum in his chest. 

Belle licks Brienne's face and Brienne laughs in delight, a loud, overwhelming sound, like a train rushing by and then disappearing into the night. Jaime wants to hear it again. 

“Aren't you beautiful?” Brienne tells Belle, and Jaime thinks: _Yes_. 

“Tell me about her,” Brienne says to him from where she's kneeling on the ground and stroking Belle's floppy ears, and his mind lurches sideways and all the things he's been trying not to think about since Wednesday – since she threw that drunk asshole out of bar – since she served him a challenging look and a whiskey for the first time – flood through him. 

“Uh,” he says eloquently. Brienne's eyes are bright and patient and interested. Belle licks her on the cheek again and she smiles at his dog with tenderness. “She's a hound mix,” he finally says, recovering without Brienne looking at him. “Six years old. I got her as an older puppy from the pound.”

“You're a rescue,” Brienne says to Belle. “Lucky girl.” 

Belle licks Brienne right across the lips and Jaime is absurdly jealous of his own damn dog. 

“Do you have a dog?” he asks, and he can't believe neither of them know this about each other. There's so much he doesn't know about Brienne, and so much he wishes he did. 

“Not anymore. We had a big black Lab when I was a kid, but after my mom died, Jojo died right after, and I think Dad just linked the two in his head somehow. Besides, he was busy with two kids and a bar to run, we didn't have time for a dog. Although...” Brienne strokes her big hand over Belle's head and down her body, patting her gently. “I probably could have used the companionship.” 

She stands and shoves her hands in her pockets, not quite looking at him. “Anyway, thanks for letting me meet her. Is she why you were late?”

“Yeah, my sitter had a family emergency and I couldn't find a backup. It should be fine next week.” 

“You could bring her,” Brienne says, scuffing the toe of her boot in the gravel. “If you wanted. We have a back room, she could hang out there. Save you a little money.” 

Money has never been an issue in Jaime's life. He could afford a live-in pet-sitter if he really wanted one, but he doesn't, and the prospect of Brienne watching over Belle fills him with the same pleasant kind of warmth as a campfire on a cold night. 

“I don't want to impose,” he says, hedging, even while _yes_ beats eagerly on his tongue. “Feels like I'm taking advantage.”

“Honestly I feel a little like I'm the one taking advantage of you,” she says, and she gives him a shy smile that he wouldn't have expected her capable of, but the hope in it softens everything about her. 

“You're more than welcome to take advantage of me,” he murmurs, and there's a flood of fire over the broad span of her cheeks. Jaime clears his throat. “What do you say, girl?” he directs to Belle, who is looking between them with her head cocked in a curious tilt. Her tail thumps the ground a few times. “I'll take that as yes.” 

He grins up at Brienne, who returns it, though her eyes are still a little wide. 

“Show up earlier next week and we'll figure out details then,” she says. “Should I get some food for her?”

“No, I can bring some kibble, don't go out of your way.” 

“It's no trouble, really,” Brienne insists. “You've got your guitar and the dog, I can handle the food.” Brienne pats Belle on the head, and Belle leans into Brienne's leg in return. Their united front is impossible to resist. 

“Nothing fancy,” he says, relenting. 

“Great!” Brienne beams down at Belle, and the bit of refracted light he gets from it is enough to illuminate his whole night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is [my headcanon for Belle](https://64.media.tumblr.com/17570a63c5c57ff56390cd2ba35055d0/1f4898b5bc10f109-53/s1280x1920/a36de068e9a8daa5ef7fe140519e1e3ee5ab6bcb.jpg). 😊


	6. It's hard to keep my hands to myself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne's waiting outside for Jaime and Belle the following Friday, and he pulls up right on time at seven. They'd had to skip their usual Wednesday outing because his pet-sitter was still out on her emergency, and although Brienne had almost suggested she and Jaime do something more pet-friendly and not music-related at all, the idea had died unspoken. Their relationship is about the music, she reminds herself, no matter how many after-concert questions he asks her about the teams she roots for or the drinks she prefers or why there are so many comic book movies out. The realization that it's the first week in months that she hasn't seen him twice fits like an oddly-sized jacket. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but awkward, and she's hyper-aware of it.

Brienne's waiting outside for Jaime and Belle the following Friday, and he pulls up right on time at seven. They'd had to skip their usual Wednesday outing because his pet-sitter was still out on her emergency, and although Brienne had almost suggested she and Jaime do something more pet-friendly and not music-related at all, the idea had died unspoken. Their relationship is about the music, she reminds herself, no matter how many after-concert questions he asks her about the teams she roots for or the drinks she prefers or why there are so many comic book movies out. The realization that it's the first week in months that she hasn't seen him twice fits like an oddly-sized jacket. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but awkward, and she's hyper-aware of it. 

He walks up with Belle on her leash and his guitar case in his other hand, the sun low behind him and setting him aglow. It's so absurdly picturesque that Brienne has to laugh a little. 

“Something funny?” he asks curiously when he's near and she shakes her head. 

“Just my life,” she says, which she can tell doesn't satisfy his curiosity in the slightest, but she bends down to pet Belle, who wriggles with excitement at the attention. “Good evening, girl,” Brienne tells her. “Wait until you see what I've got for you.”

“What did you do?” he asks, narrowing his eyes when she grins up at him. She beckons for him to follow her to the near side of the bar, where there's a side door that's usually double-bolted and is currently propped open. It leads into their back room, a cramped area full of boxes, a small desk stacked with papers, the phone on top blinking furiously with unheard voicemail messages, and in the middle, now, a dog's paradise. 

At least, Brienne hopes so. She'd gone to the local feed store and gotten everything she could find to make Belle comfortable: a plush dog bed, an array of toys, a meaty bone to chew on, and a shiny new dog bowl with tennis balls painted on the outside. 

“Oh my god,” Jaime says when he enters with Belle, and Brienne suddenly sees it as he might: a total extravagance for a simple pet-sitting request that might not even work out. She chews her bottom lip nervously. 

“I can take all this back,” she says quickly. “It's dumb, I shouldn't have bought it.”

“No, no,” he says, and he looks a little dazed. “It's great, are you kidding? You're gonna spoil her. She's never going to leave.” He blinks and he's not dazed anymore but his eyes are still glowing when he looks at Brienne. “I wouldn't blame her.” 

“Well,” she stammers, stepping on one of the squeaky toys with the toe of her boot. Belle goes fully on alert, staring at it. Brienne had made Jon sit in the room with the door closed and squeak every toy while she stood in various spots in the bar to be sure it wouldn't be heard during the concert tonight. “I wanted to be sure she was comfortable.” 

“It's amazing, truly. Thank you.” He unclips the leash and Belle leaps for the toy, lifting it up and chomping happily, unleashing a series of tortured squeaks. They both laugh a little. 

“I bought food, too, some of that all-protein kind. The clerk said it was the most nutritious one.” 

“I feel like I should pay you for this,” Jaime says. His mouth is soft and pleased and Brienne wonders what his lips might feel like when he lightly wets them. 

_No no no_ , she commands herself, staring anywhere else – the dustbunny-filled far corner, the messy desktop, Belle's body flopped down on the dog bed. 

“It's my pleasure,” she squeaks, sounding suspiciously like Belle's toy. “Anyway, I reckon I should get back to the bar. It's starting to pick up. You can stay back here if you want, make sure she's all right.” 

“Okay,” he says and he's still got that gentle look on his face, one that makes all his sharp edges seem far more touchable – temptingly so. Brienne retreats from the room with a little wave and is still mentally kicking herself for all of it as she returns to her spot behind the bar. She runs her hand over the wood and immediately calms. This is something she knows how to handle, the flow of customers and their drinks, the chatter that crests and retreats as everyone waits for the performance. She can tell the second Jaime comes out of the back room because the crowd eddies around him. By the time he makes it to the bar, she's steady again. 

“Everything okay?” she asks, indicating the back with her eyes. 

“She had no idea I was even there,” he says with a small laugh. “And won't miss me now that I've left. Thank you, again. I appreciate you letting me bring her here.” 

“I get bonus dog petting out of it, so it works out.” 

They smile at each other and then another customer needs her attention and Jon takes Jaime to the stage to get him set up. Halfway through Jaime's concert, Brienne goes to the back to check on Belle and finds her sprawled half in and half out of the dog bed, the bone still in her sleeping mouth. 

After the performance is over and the bar clears out, it's just Brienne, Jaime, and Jon left. Usually Jaime leaves first, but he seems uninterested in going anywhere tonight, and she can feel Jon looking between them with far more curiosity than the situation deserves. 

“I'm heading out for the night,” Jon says and Jaime lifts his hand in goodbye from where he's still sitting at the bar. Jon looks inquiringly at Brienne and she nods a little. 

“Goodnight, Jon,” she says. “I'll close everything up.” 

She can almost hear his questions, but even if he'd asked them she wouldn't have any answers. She's not sure why Jaime is still here tonight, why his eyes follow her as she tidies around the bar and gets everything ready for tomorrow. 

“You don't have to stay,” she tells him. “It's perfectly safe. You can take Belle home.” 

“I don't mind,” he says. “Besides, we didn't get to see each other on Wednesday. I didn't get to use my word on you then.” 

Brienne's face warms but she stoically keeps staring at her inventory. “Go on, then.” 

“I can't just drop it like I'm at a spelling bee; where's the fun in that?” 

“You have a very strange sense of fun.” 

“So I've been told. What do you do for fun, Brienne?”

She glances over her shoulder at him, and he seems genuinely interested, not like he's trying to make fun of her. They've talked around these things before, but never asked each other so directly. “The things most people like, I guess. Watching tv, listening to music. Going out in nature.” 

“But you don't sing or play an instrument, right?”

“I don't.” She loves to sing when she's alone, but she's never telling him that. 

“Would you like to learn?” 

She blinks rapidly at him. That hadn't been where she'd expected this to go. “What?”

He pats his guitar case. “I could teach you. I tried teaching my brother once, but it was a struggle. He doesn't have the hands for it. You do.” 

Brienne looks down at her own hands. They're big, like the rest of her, the fingers long, the knuckles rough and her nails blunt. They've always seemed like working hands to her, not the hands of an artist. Of course, Jaime's hands look a lot like hers, and he plays the guitar just fine. 

“You think?”

“I do. Come here.” He clicks open the guitar case and it's loud in the otherwise quiet bar. She follows him to the stage and sits next to him on the end of it, their knees brushing. The wood and oil smell of his guitar is rich when he holds it out to her, one hand gripping the neck, the other supporting the body. Brienne stares at it uncertainly. “It's totally innocuous,” he says, and she snorts. 

“Nicely done,” she says. Jaime grins and nudges the guitar towards her. 

Brienne takes it from him carefully, settling it in her lap. She's held guitars before, of course, strummed the strings and pretended she's known what she's doing. But holding this one feels different somehow; like she's cradling a part of Jaime in her arms. 

“Most folks think guitar is about the individual notes, but all you really need to get started are chords. Can I...?” His hand hovers over hers on the neck and she nods. Jaime gently places her fingers on three different spots on the fretboard, then re-arranges them, his tongue between his teeth in concentration. “This is a lot more difficult to do from this side, hold on.” 

He crawls up around behind her on the stage, and though he's mostly not touching her, the heat of his body at her back is intense as he curves his left hand over hers, molding their fingers together. His forearm is barely brushing hers, but she feels every millimeter of it. “There,” he murmurs near her ear. C-major. Give it a strum.” 

Brienne's not sure her body is going to obey her, but it does, and when she runs her fingers across the wire strings, a full, rich chord echoes out into the empty bar. There's a thrill in hearing music made by her own hands that has her smiling. 

“Perfect,” he says, and she can hear his own smile. He hasn't moved away, and his hand comes around hers again, putting her fingers into a new position with feathery touches. “D-major. Do it again.” His voice reverberates down her back like the next chord does down her front, and she's held between the two wavelengths, between the heat and the accomplishment, her throat going dry. 

Jaime's fingers are strong and warm as he adjusts her fingers into a slightly stretched position. She's having trouble taking a normal breath; all she's inhaling is him. “This one is trickier,” he tells her in a low voice. “But your fingers are so long, it shouldn't be hard.” 

Brienne realizes she hasn't said a word since he started, so she whispers, “Okay.”

He hums a little in response and she feels the buzz of it lick through her, vibrating like a tuning fork. “G-major,” he informs her, and she tries to pay attention – she's enjoying knowing this, even if it's all wrapped up in how he smells, how he's hovering only inches away, how his nose brushes her hair. “Go ahead.” 

Brienne strums the guitar again and it rolls out and then fades into silence. Jaime inhales deeply behind her. 

The tapping of nails alerts them to Belle's appearance and Brienne whips her head around when the dog comes sniffing out of the back room. She sees them and her tail wags happily before she bounds up onto the stage and shoves herself between their bodies. 

Jaime mutters something Brienne can't understand and she leaps to her feet, clutching the guitar to her chest when she turns to look at him, his dog sprawled in his lap, belly up. 

“You guys should go,” she says, and Jaime considers her for a long moment, but he nods, scratching Belle's stomach. 

“We probably should. Thanks for humoring me.” 

“It's fine. I like learning it,” she says sincerely. _I like being so near you_ , she doesn't add, though she thinks it so loudly she's sure he must hear. Brienne shoves the guitar into his chest and flees for the safety of behind the bar, where she stays and pointedly does not think about his fingers or his body. After Jaime leaves with Belle, she spends the rest of the night unable to think about anything else.

* * *

Jaime waits for her outside of their Wednesday venue, his stomach in knots. Part of it is because of the surprise he has planned, but part of it is also a strange mix of anxiety and eagerness at seeing Brienne again, though he's seen her plenty in his dreams since Friday. 

He'd intended just to share his love of making music with her, especially with how much she obviously loves music herself. But being so near, surrounded by the alcohol and sweat scent of her, the span of her shoulders matching so well to his own, close enough to her ear he could've tugged it between his teeth – it had all lingered at the edge of his thoughts for days, a particularly viral earworm. When he met Tyrion for brunch on Sunday, his brother had looked suspiciously at him and asked: “Who is she?” 

Jaime hadn't given up any information, redirecting Tyrion into talk of a particular deal he knew had been eating at his brother for weeks, and by the time Tyrion had spiraled out all of his frustration, he'd seemed to have forgotten his interest in Jaime's love life, too. Which was exactly the way Jaime wanted it; especially since he couldn't call any of this a love life. He's not sure there even is a word for whatever this relationship with Brienne is, or what he wants it to be. They're friends, sort of, but he still hasn't even told her his last name, and he's growing more nervous with every day that passes without her knowing. She hasn't told him hers, either, technically, but it was easy enough to figure out once he learned Selwyn's. 

He sees her blond head bobbing above the crowd, late as usual. For a woman who seems like she would breathe punctuality, her idealistic belief that this is the night she's going to find nearby parking in downtown Nashville makes him laugh. Fortunately, he told her a start time for a little earlier than it actually is, since tonight, he's the show. 

“Hey,” he says as soon as Brienne is near, and her eyes widen, probably surprised at his too-loud greeting. 

“Hi,” she says in a more normal tone. “So who are we seeing?”

“Just some guy. Come on, let's go inside.” He gently tugs her into the bar by the loose sleeve of her shirt – flannel and a tank-top, like almost every night. Jaime would tease her about it, but knowing how she looks in a tank-top, he'd rather beg her to never wear anything else, unless she was wearing only his hat. 

That image requires a forceful shove back into the box for another, more shower-adjacent time. He hurries past the woman taking tickets and money at the entrance, and he can feel Brienne's questions without even looking back at her. 

“I already checked us in,” he semi-lies, pulling her further inside. There's a spot just to the back of the room that has a perfect view of the stage, and that he knows once he's up there he'll be able to see her perfectly, too. 

Brienne is right: Jaime needs to play somewhere else if he's really going to forge his own path as a performer. He's just been too chickenshit to _do_ it, until a Wednesday opportunity fell into his lap a week ago when he'd been searching venues to go to with Brienne. He'd planned to tell her about it on Friday, and then she'd bought half a store just for his dog, had been almost in his arms, and Jaime had forgotten everything except the sound of Brienne's name. 

Belle had peered woefully out the window the entire ride home, and he could only nod in sympathy. He hadn't wanted to leave Brienne, either, though she'd seemed relieved by the dog-blocking. 

“I'll get the drinks,” he says now, leaving her there again, and she frowns at him. 

Jaime gets two beers and hands them both to Brienne, checking his watch. “I'm gonna hit the restroom before the set starts,” he tells her, and then he's off again, leaving her open-mouthed. He should probably tell her what's about to happen – he should tell her a lot of things – but he's committed to this and hopes the annoyance fades away once she figures out what's happening. 

As planned, Jaime makes his way towards the bathroom, glances back at Brienne to see she's frowning down at the beers, and he darts into the hallway that leads towards the tiny green room behind the stage. 

“Hey man, you ready or what?” the owner asks and Jaime nods, grabbing his guitar and slinging the strap over his head. 

“I'm ready. Remember: don't say my name, I'll do it myself.”

“Whatever,” the man says, not bothering to hide how strange he thinks Jaime is. That's all right, Jaime isn't here tonight for him, or the crowd out there. He's here for one woman only. 

The last time he was this nervous performing was that first Tuesday at Selwyn's, and he has to rub his palms on his jeans three times before he feels ready to take the stage. He hears the muffled introduction by the owner, the cheers of the crowd, and he walks out of the green room onto the stage. The lights are boiling beams that he squints into to make out Brienne's form right where he'd left her. She's still clutching both of the beers he'd given her, but she's not watching the stage yet. 

Jaime cups the mic and takes a steadying breath. The butterflies in his stomach have grown up into elephants. “Good evening,” he says, and he sees Brienne's head jerk wildly. “My name's Colt Thunder, thanks for having me.” 

There are some appreciative whistles from a row of young women near the front, but Jaime's watching Brienne's shock fading briefly to a furrowed brow of annoyance and then into a slowly growing smile as he kicks into his first song and sings it straight to her.

Whenever he plays Selwyn's, Brienne watches as much as she can, but he knows she's still at work, that between the customers and the clean-up she's too busy to really watch him perform, so this is a chance he intends to make the most of. Jaime pulls out all the tricks he's developed over the last several months and puts on a show made for her. 

He's changed up the order a little, starting with the same song he always does before playing some of the newer songs next that she's not quite so sick of; he's even worked on new patter for between songs. As the set wears on, he's playing so hard for her in the back row that he wonders if he'll lose everyone in between, but they're dancing and stomping for the fast songs, swaying and cheering for the slow ones. And Brienne stands there, her eyes blue depths that soak in every note and every smile he sends her way, and return them with a joy he's not sure he's ever seen in her before. Somewhere along the way she's set aside the drinks, and she claps fiercely after each song. By the end of it she's got her hands cupped around her mouth as she shouts encouragement, and it only makes Jaime pour more of himself into every part of his performance. His guitar is blessed, not missing a single note, and his voice feels fresh even on the last song, and when the crowd demands one encore, and then a second, Jaime plays those every bit as hard as all the songs before. 

Once he's finally done, the sounds of the crowd following him back to the green room, Jaime's covered in sweat and feels like he could play for the whole night as long as Brienne's there at the back of the room to bolster him up. 

“Holy shit, man!” the owner says, coming in back and grabbing his hand for a forceful shake, pounding Jaime on the shoulder with his other hand. “That was a hell of a show. What did you say your name was?”

“Colt,” he says, and his voice seems to have left him entirely all at once. He grabs the water bottle waiting for him and downs half of it. 

“There's a line at your merch table. Deal is we'll staff it for you, but that crowd out there wants to meet you if you've got the energy for it.” 

“I guess,” he croaks, though all he really wants is to see Brienne. “Can you bring someone back here first? Blonde woman, very tall, you really can't miss her. She'll probably look a little lost.” 

The man winks at him. “Will do, friend.” 

Jaime doesn't return the lewd smile, and the man's face drops before he hurries out. Jaime finishes off the rest of the water while he waits, and then opens another one and pulls his hat off to pour some over his head. He's smoothing his wet hair back when Brienne comes in. 

“You would not believe--” she's saying, though she stumbles to a halt when she sees him. “Oh.”

“I wouldn't believe what?” Jaime asks, settling his hat back on his head. He pours a little water in his cupped palm and splashes it on his neck and chest. 

Brienne's bright red and staring at his elbow. “What this guy told me when he pointed me back here,” she says. Then she goes silent. 

“What did he say?” he asks, furrowing his brow. 

“It's not important,” she says quickly. “That was an amazing show.” 

Jaime feels like his triumphant smile will crack open his face. “It was, wasn't it?”

Brienne looks up at him with such a fondly amused look that Jaime wants to yank her towards him and kiss it into something that matches the fire he feels. 

“It was,” she says. “Truly. That's the best you've ever been.”

“That's because of you,” he tells her. 

She scoffs. “I'm always there. This was all you. I knew you needed to get out of Selwyn's.” 

“That's not—” He huffs, not sure how to explain it without coming across like he needs her too much and scaring her away. “Do you have any notes?” he asks, trying for equilibrium again. 

“You know I don't,” she says, but her smile is so much dimmer than it had been. “You've got to keep playing Nashville clubs, Jaime. This is what you were meant to do.”

“Will you come watch me?”

“Sometimes, if I can,” she says hesitantly. “We don't have to do this anymore, you know. You can have your Wednesdays back, and your Fridays, too, if you want them.” 

Back for what, he can't imagine. Unending boredom? Lonely nights with his TV and his dog? Even if his life was nonstop action, he still wouldn't want to give up his time with her. “I have a standing gig on Fridays and I like our Wednesdays,” he says, and he hopes he doesn't sound too desperate. “But we could do... other things, if you want.”

“Like what?” She looks so suspicious, so disbelieving. Jaime can't decide if it's because she doesn't trust his friendship or his motives. 

“Belle loves going to the dog park, but it's boring for just one person. She mostly runs off and leaves me to fend for myself.” 

Brienne grins a little; as usual his dog earns her smile more quickly than he does. “I can't guarantee I'll be any better company, but we could try it.” 

“Great!” He hurries on before she changes her mind: “Next Wednesday we'll do the dog park instead. I'll text you the info. And you know,” he says casually, “you can send me any photos of Belle you might have taken Friday. Or whatever else you might want.” Though he's had her cell number for weeks, they've only ever exchanged addresses for the venues they've been to. It's been oddly impersonal, a transaction more than anything else, but he's not sure if she's open for more. 

“I did take a few,” she says as she pulls her phone out of her pocket. She'd gone on a lengthy rant one night when he'd asked why she never carried a purse, and she'd explained how men's jeans have pockets deep enough to carry everything she needs. “The only good thing about being my size,” she'd groused, “is having to shop in the men's section.” Jaime had wanted very much to tell her that wasn't the only good thing about her size, but he hadn't been sure she'd wanted an ode to her legs or the muscles of her arms.

He's even less sure she'd welcome such an ode now, especially as it would be even more extensive and lustful than before. 

She brings up his contact info, first name only, and he thinks to himself: _Tell her now_. But he's not ready to, not yet, not when he can still just be Jaime with her. He doesn't think she'll hate him – it's not like he murdered someone – but he's seen enough people's behavior change that he wants to keep Brienne for himself until he can't a moment longer. 

He'll have to tell her soon, though, because he wants to kiss her and he won't do it until she knows who he is. 

“I'll send them to you,” she says, breaking his line of thought. “But there's a lot of people who want to meet you out there right now. You should go say hi. Make connections.” 

Jaime would rather disappear out the back with her and leave all of the others behind. “It sounds terrible,” he tells her truthfully. 

“Do it for me, then,” she says. “Tell them they can see you at Selwyn's this Friday.” 

He laughs a little. “Ruthless,” he says admiringly. “I will, but you have to stay at my side the whole time.” 

“I'm not a show piece, Jaime, no one wants me hulking back there.” 

“I do,” he says sincerely. “If it'll make you too uncomfortable, you can go, but I'd rather you stayed.” 

Brienne chews her thick bottom lip as she thinks, making it rosy in a way that only invites thoughts he should not be having in public. “All right,” she says, though she's still a little hesitant. He probably should send her home, but he's far too selfish for that. 

The venue's owner gets her a chair, at least, and Brienne sits and watches Jaime as he shakes hands and sells albums and tells people over and over about Selwyn's. He doesn't point Brienne out, because he knows her enough to know she'd hate that, but having her steady presence there, being able to shoot her a wry look when a woman gets a little too handsy on a selfie and he has to squirm away, makes it all more bearable. 

Eventually the line peters out and Jaime's energy does, too, and after he settles things with the bar owner, they walk quietly back to Brienne's truck along the brightly-lit streets. It's late now, but it's downtown Nashville and summertime, so there are still others out with them. His hand itches to hold hers, their wrists brushing occasionally as they walk. 

“After this Friday,” she starts as they near her truck, but Jaime cuts her off. 

“It will be Wednesday again, and we'll go to the dog park.” 

Brienne shakes her head. “Thanks for the free advertising,” she says after a pause, unlocking her truck.

“Thanks for watching me play.” 

“That was quite a surprise. I thought you'd fallen into the toilet for a minute,” she laughs. 

“Always a possibility.” He holds the door for her as she climbs in, shuts it and waits for her to roll down the window. _Tell her_ , he thinks. _Tell her how you dream about her and how you want to put your mouth all over her body and how she makes you want to play better just because she believes you can._

It gets stuck in his throat in a confused and agonizing jumble, so knotted up with nerves and desire he can't untangle any of it to speak. He could sing it, maybe, if he could find the words. Instead, Jaime pats the side of the truck and waves goodbye and he doesn't say anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to forbiddenfantasies for the inspiration for the guitar scene!


	7. We all have thorns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime keeps sneaking unbidden into her thoughts. She drives to work and there's a song on the radio that reminds her of one of his. Or she pauses in between orders at night and remembers him smiling at her as they were line dancing. Or she thinks of any of the times she's caught his gaze on her and felt it all over her skin. Brienne doesn't want to think about Jaime and all the ways he watches her – when he's performing, when she drives away, that look he'd had when he talked about _taking advantage_ – but she can't _stop_ thinking about it.

Brienne drives into Nashville that Friday to have lunch with Galladon. She'd been the one to arrange it, as always, but he'd seemed excited for her to visit and had texted her a restaurant and reservation time less than an hour after they'd made plans. She doesn't like to take off work, even just during the day, but she refuses to abandon the bar on weekends and Fridays are the only weekday Gal can spare. In his eagerness, Selwyn almost shoves her out the door when she asks him to cover for her. 

“Have fun, give him my love!” her dad says with a cheerful wave. He'd been out to see Gal a couple of weeks ago, so the quiet sadness when her brother's name comes up hasn't had time to seep back in yet. 

Traffic heading into town mid-Friday morning is light; most of the cars on the road right now are escaping the city. Brienne doesn't blame them. There are lots of trucks, and many of them are towing boats of all shapes and sizes. It's early summer and the weather is supposed to be beautiful this weekend; if Brienne had the days off she might head out to Percy Priest lake herself and enjoy the sunshine. She wonders if Jaime ever goes to the lake with Belle, and immediately chokes off that line of thought. 

Jaime keeps sneaking unbidden into her thoughts. She drives to work and there's a song on the radio that reminds her of one of his. Or she pauses in between orders at night and remembers him smiling at her as they were line dancing. Or she thinks of any of the times she's caught his gaze on her and felt it all over her skin. Brienne doesn't want to think about Jaime and all the ways he watches her – when he's performing, when she drives away, that look he'd had when he talked about _taking advantage_ – but she can't _stop_ thinking about it. His performance on Wednesday had been electric, a force wave hitting her even in the back. It had felt like he was playing for her alone, but she knows that's just how it feels when a great performer is in the zone, and he'd been on fire in a way she'd never seen. Knowing that didn't stop her from thinking about him more that night, and all day Thursday, anyway. She's getting tired of reining in her own mind all the time; at least this lunch with Galladon will be a Jaime-free zone. 

Even though it's Friday afternoon it still takes far too long to find parking, so she's nearly ten minutes late arriving at the hip, fancy restaurant Gal selected. But when she walks up, her brother's face immediately brightens and he swoops her into a huge hug the moment she's near, so that her apology comes out as a breathless laugh. They're of a height, a fact that annoyed them both when she was growing up, and Brienne can feel people staring at them as they walk by: two pale giants taking up more than their share of sidewalk space. 

“It's good to see you,” he says, in the same booming tones he inherited from their father. For all Brienne has the size, she didn't get the same expansive, welcoming energy they both have, the kind that wraps even strangers in its warm embrace. She's been called some variation of 'cold' and 'reserved' enough times that she wears it like a comfortable sweater. 

“You, too,” she says, holding back a sarcastic remark about how he could have seen her sooner if he'd come visit. She doesn't want to start lunch by arguing with him. “You look great,” she adds, gesturing at his tailored suit. Brienne had worn her best slacks and blouse, but they were simple, solid colors – black pants, white top – and not entirely suited to her. “I feel like I should have dressed up more.”

“You're fine,” he says, opening the door for her. “I had a morning meeting. Come on, you'll love this place. Best steakhouse in Nashville.” 

Brienne nearly gapes at the elegantly decorated interior, the soft lighting, the muted classical music. “I hope you're paying for this,” she whispers. 

“I am,” he whispers back. “It's all my treat.” 

They're led to a secluded booth by a man dressed more nicely than Brienne. Most of the booths here seem to be little oases to enjoy the food and hold quiet conversations. Brienne wonders how many business deals have been hashed out at these tables over steaming plates of bloody meat. 

They spend time idly chatting, Galladon orders wine and appetizers with Brienne's approval, and she takes several minutes to review the menu and marvel with increasing disbelief at the cost of everything before they're left alone with a cloth-wrapped basket of bread, two glasses of red wine, and an appetizer of roasted bone marrow, which the menu had titled “canoes of beef.” 

Brienne eyes them warily. “People eat this?”

“Please don't be so much like Dad for once, will you? It's really good. I've had marrow lots of times.” 

She gives him a bland stare across the table. “ _Lots_ of times?”

Galladon shrugs. “I've had it before. Come on, Bri-bee.”

Brienne makes an annoyed noise deep in her throat and scrapes some of the food onto her fork, holding it up to the light. “Marrow, though?”

“The whole cow is edible,” he says like a sage old man. Still her big brother, even with the city between them. 

He's right though: the marrow is good, if a little strange, texture-wise, and they eat all of it between them. Galladon talks about his job the entire time, how much he loves being able to take the bus or his bike into work, how exciting it is with his office building right in the middle of downtown. He's in marketing, and she can picture him giving pitches with this same boyish enthusiasm, winning everyone over. He starts off sounding a little different, as though he's trying to mute his accent. It keeps throwing her off, waiting for him to drop sounds or slur them together; discordant as a familiar tune that keeps missing the occasional note. 

They talk through salads and into their main course, about him and what he's been up to outside of work as well. Dating – though no relationships – new hobbies, and concerts, of course, because music is everywhere here. By the time Brienne's starting on her steak, he sounds like Gal again. 

“Your turn,” he says. “How are you? What're you up to?” 

She buys herself some time with chewing and shrugs a little. “Well, still working at the bar, of course.” Galladon looks down when she says it, because he can never quite meet her eyes when the bar comes up. He knows she took it on when he left, and she's told him – truthfully – she loves it, that she would have ended up there anyway, but both of them can't help but feel he forced her hand, even if the outcome would've been the same. It's in these moments, when she studies his expensive haircut and the perfect lines of his suit, that Brienne admits she's still mad at him for being here, and not back with her and their father. 

“Dad says things have picked up a bit?” Galladon says towards her twice-baked potato. 

“Yeah, we've got a recurring act on Fridays. He's been bringing in a good crowd. Lots of regulars and new people.”

“That's good. Does he play Nashville, too?”

“He's just starting to. He's really good.” 

Gal meets her gaze then. He has their mom's eyes, brown and lively. “Yeah? You think record deal good?” 

“I do,” she says, because it's obvious that's the trajectory of Jaime's career. He'll play Nashville, he'll get an agent to discover him, and then they'll make him a star. Someday she hopes to see Selwyn's name in an interview with the famous Colt Thunder. 

“I remember we had an act like that come through about six or seven years ago. Lady was amazing, but she never made it out of the Nashville clubs. It's tough.” 

“I know that, but you've never seen this guy. He's the whole package: talented and charismatic, works hard and adapts well. I think he's gonna make it.” 

Galladon raises his eyebrows, pale lines, just like hers. “What's his name? I'll keep an eye out for him when he plays here.” 

“Colt Thunder,” she says on a resigned sigh, and Galladon's laugh is the loudest sound in the restaurant. 

“You're shitting me.” 

“Nope.”

“He sounds like a stripper!”

“I know,” she says, laughing a little, too. “I've told him that, but he refuses to change it.” 

“I guess I won't forget it.” He shakes his head a little and says, “Colt Thunder,” with a delighted giggle. “What else is going on for you? Any boys I should be threatening to treat my little sister well?”

Brienne snorts. “No. And even if there were, I can threaten boys just fine by myself.” 

“Aw, that's no fun. You have to let me use my height for something. And now I can tell them I'm wealthy enough to hire assassins.” 

“Sorry to disappoint you, but you won't have to hire any assassins any time in the near or distant future.” 

“Bri-bee,” Gal says, like he's disappointed in her. “You just need to get out of that bar. Unless you're planning on dating Jon. Or maybe the stripper-songwriter.” 

Inexplicably – traitorously – she feels her cheeks grow hot, and Galladon goes on full alert. 

“Woah. Are you dating one of them?”

“No,” she says quickly. 

“But you want to.” 

“No,” she says much more slowly. 

Gal grins at her. “You want to date the stripper, don't you?” 

“He's not a stripper, Gal, god.”

“That's not a no.” 

Brienne takes a long drink of her water and curses her own body for its effortless betrayal, both in alerting Galladon and for how she responds to Jaime in the first place. Maybe she should date Jon, just to throw both her libido and Galladon off. 

“I'm not gonna date him,” she says finally. “I was just helping him get better with his performances.”

Galladon leans back in his chair and folds his hands over his chest. It's a move she's seen their father pull a hundred times, and it's no less annoying watching Gal do it. “How exactly are you helping him?”

“On Wednesdays we go to different bars and clubs to watch other people perform. It's no big deal.” She does not tell him about the Friday night dog-sitting deal, or their planned trip to the dog park next week. 

“Your face suggests otherwise,” Gal says, and she can feel how hot her skin is. 

“I want dessert,” she says, and Gal chuckles, but he waves down their server to order and, blessedly, he lets it go afterward. Talk turns to reminiscing, as it always does eventually, because Galladon doesn't like to only talk about himself, and Brienne never has that much to say. Her days are simple: she wakes up and putters around her house, gets some exercise, works, and then she comes home to sleep and start it all over again. It's a quiet life, and while Brienne doesn't mind the quiet, she does sometimes wonder if she'd inject a little more noise if she could have it. 

Once they're done, she lingers in the entry admiring the raw cuts of beef on display while waiting for Galladon to finish in the restroom, when she hears a voice she would never have expected. 

“I just got here,” Jaime says, and Brienne whips her head around to watch him step into the restaurant, phone to his ear. “I'll be there in a second.” He disconnects and glances her way and he does a literal double-take upon seeing her that would be funny if she weren't so utterly shocked herself. 

He looks the same and entirely different. Gone is the denim and leather, replaced with a suit that definitely costs more than her truck is worth. It's tailored to fit him so well he should be modeling it on a runway, not out in the world for lunch on a Friday. His hair, normally curling and loose, is slicked back, tight and smooth as a shark's skin. Even his face looks different somehow – like all the charmed amusement that emanates from him at the bar has been leached away, leaving only the serious, finely-edged shadow of the man she knows. If he'd been all Colt Thunder that first night he walked into her bar, there's none of that here in the man that he is the rest of the week when he's not with her. 

“Brienne?” he asks, eyes raking over her. “I thought you worked today. What are you doing here?” 

“Having lunch with my brother. What are _you_ doing here?”

“Business meeting.” His eyes flicker to the restaurant interior and then back to Brienne. “You look different.” 

She tugs at the buttons of her shirt, trying to settle them back into place, suddenly worried she's dropped some sauce down her front. “So do you. Really different.” 

“Yeah.” He grins a little, a hint of the Jaime she knows peeking out. It puts her at ease to see him there, even if it's just a sliver. “My secret identity, I suppose.” 

Behind Jaime, Galladon comes out of the men's room and immediately looks with narrowed eyes between the two of them. “Hello there,” he says, startling Jaime. “Do you need something?” His face is friendly but his tone is not. 

Of course. He thinks Jaime's just stopped to make fun of her. 

“Gal,” she says, a little more tersely than she should. “It's fine. We know each other.”

“Oh!” Galladon immediately sticks his hand out, and Jaime shakes it. “Nice to meet you. I'm Brienne's brother, Galladon Tarth.” 

“Jaime.”

“Just Jaime?” Galladon asks with a false cheer. “Like Elvis?”

“I didn't realize last names were required,” Jaime says with an equally fake smile. 

“I do like to know Brienne's friends.” She bristles a little, but she wants to know Jaime's last name, too, is a little ashamed that she hasn't pressed him for it, mostly because she's afraid of why he's been so secretive. 

Jaime hesitates, before he looks at Brienne when he answers. “Lannister. Jaime Lannister.” 

It's like the lights have turned on, and suddenly all the things about Jaime that were hidden are suddenly, painfully visible. Everything about him finally makes sense. 

Gal's eyes are wide. “Jaime _Lannister_? Child country star Jaime Lannister?” 

“The very same,” Jaime agrees. Colt-Jaime – her Jaime, she can't help but think – is gone again, replaced by a man so tense that he's brittle, ready to split into cutting pieces. 

“Holy shit, Brienne, I didn't know you knew him!” 

“I didn't either,” she says quietly.

“I don't like to publicize it,” Jaime tells her, his voice slightly pleading. “Especially given what I'm trying to do.” 

Galladon, who's always been obnoxiously smart, puts what she told him together with Jaime, and his smile is as satisfied as a cat's. “You're the stripper cowboy,” he says knowingly. 

Jaime's face goes through a truly epic journey, from shocked to offended to resigned. “The name was my brother's idea,” he says weakly. 

“No offense meant,” Galladon says, slapping him on the shoulder and Jaime lists a little to the side with the force. “Why don't you just play under your own name, though? Seems like you'd be able to jump right back to a record label with your history.” 

“It's complicated,” Jaime tells him. 

“Well, this is really exciting! Brienne had your photo up on the wall of her room as a girl.” 

That sinks through the shock and she briefly shuts her eyes in horror. She's unsurprised by the hesitant delight hiding in Jaime's smile when she chances a look his way. “Is that so?” 

“Don't get too cocky. You had terrible hair,” she says. 

“It was twenty years ago, everybody had terrible hair. This is very interesting news Galladon, thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Gal says with a far-too-innocent smile. She's going to make him pay for this somehow.

“I should be getting to my meeting,” Jaime says, and she's not sure what to do with all of this new information – what he looks like in a suit, the fact that she's been giving music advice to a man who literally grew up in the industry, the rumors that he'd tried to burn his own life down – but she's glad she has the drive back home to process it. “Will I see you tonight?” he asks her. 

“I'm working,” she confirms and Jaime searches her eyes. 

“We can talk more then.”

Brienne nods a little, not sure what else to do. 

Gal takes Jaime's hand and shakes it again. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lannister. I hope Brienne hasn't been too big of a pain.”

“Gal,” she hisses, genuinely irritated now. 

“I'm rather fond of your sister,” Jaime says, the edge of his smile a knife. “Definitely the best Tarth I've met.” 

Gal takes that, and Jaime, in, and snorts a little, shaking his head. “Fair enough. Don't let us keep you.”

Jaime turns to her and there, deep in his bottle-green eyes, is the deceptively lazy, warm light she associates with the Jaime she knows. “Tonight,” he says like a promise, and then he's off to whatever business he's on, yet another thing she doesn't know. There are too many things she doesn't know about Jaime, given how many times she's found herself daydreaming about his lips and his hands. 

When she and Gal are outside the restaurant, she glares at her brother when he goes to hug her. 

“Come on, you're not really mad about the photo on the wall thing, are you? Have you forgotten the time you told the girl I liked that I was taking a dump when she called?”

“You were!”

“And you had his picture. We're both just telling the truth.”

“That's not what I'm mad about, regardless. You shouldn't have said that thing about being a pain. That was rude.” 

Gal sighs. “You're right, Brie-bee. I was being a jerk. I'm sorry. He did have a good answer, though.” 

She wants to be mad at him, but Gal's superpower is the ability to make even real annoyances feel petty with his big-eyed apologies, so she exhales and crosses her arms over her chest. “He did.”

“I think he likes you,” Gal adds, nudging her a little. 

“I'm not talking about this with you.” 

“I'm just offering an observation,” he says holding up his hands.

“You saw us together for a couple of minutes at most. He was being polite.” 

“He was being polite to _me_. He _likes_ you.” Brienne's stomach does a swooping, clenching roll. “Did you really not know he was Jaime Lannister?”

She lifts one shoulder. “He performs as Colt and I never really pushed for more.” 

“Hm.” Galladon narrows his eyes at her. “Be careful, Brienne. You know what they said about him back in the day. He should've been more upfront about who he was with you, especially if you've been going out together.”

“We're just friends. Not even that. Co-workers. Sort of. He can keep whatever secrets he likes.” Even as she says it, she doesn't believe herself. Once they'd started talking in-depth about his career, about the industry – about themselves – he should have told her. 

“Hm,” Galladon says again, and she considers stepping on his foot, but doesn't. Mostly because there are people walking by and she doesn't want to draw more attention. “Give me a hug, I've got to get back to work.” 

He wraps her in his arms, and she grudgingly puts hers around him in return. She didn't come all this way to leave angry. 

“I didn't think you'd ever be interested in a guy like him,” Gal admits into her hair, and she steps out of his embrace, curious. “A city boy,” he says with a laugh. “Don't work too hard, Brie-bee. You deserve a life outside of that bar.” 

“That bar is our family business,” she says sharply. 

“It's our dad's business. You can do what you like.” 

“I'm not going to talk to you about this, either. Go back to your fancy office and your marrow-eating friends.” 

He gives her a rueful smile, squeezes her arm, and then walks off down the street, people parting before him. Galladon looks at home on the city streets, one hand casually tucked in the pocket of his pants, flipping through his phone with his other hand. She can barely remember what he looked like behind the bar, though he'd worked there since graduating high school, up until his day job and tightly-held dreams interfered one too many times with his nighttime shifts at the bar. 

Or, she supposes, the bar interfered with them. 

Brienne doesn't turn on the radio on the drive home. Instead she streams Jaime's first album, released when he was ten, before he'd left everything behind in what had been reported as a tantrum. Of course, she hadn't known that back then. When she had had his photo on her wall, _she_ was ten and he would've been eighteen or nineteen by then, if she's got her timelines correct. Probably already tall and growing handsomer by the day, and rumored to be a drug addict and an arrogant jerk. At ten, though, he was still round-cheeked, with his mop of golden, curling hair plastered aggressively against his head, likely trying to make him respectable for family-focused country radio. The slicked-back hair at the restaurant had reminded her more strongly of little Jaime Lannister than Colt Thunder's loose curls ever would. His songs back then were mostly corny pablum, but his voice had been lovely, high and sweet, as befitted a boy that age. Now that she knows who he is, she can see the line connecting the innocent boy to the devil-may-care man – the shape of his eyes, the angle of his nose, a certain something when he hits particular notes – but she's not surprised she didn't know it before, and she expects he was counting on that. 

Which means he's been hiding his last name on purpose. It's not hard to see why: once Brienne was a little older she'd heard rumors of the spoiled boy who'd refused to do anything his handlers had asked, who'd broken his contract and ruined his career and reputation both, who'd descended into infamy and then obscurity. Wanting to come back and succeed on his own terms is something she understands. She's seen a version of it up close in Galladon, has felt some of that urge herself, though she's always squashed it down. Brienne loves the bar, and no matter whose name is on the front, it's slowly becoming hers anyway. 

But it's not the fact that Jaime kept it from everyone else that matters; it's why he kept it from _her_. The only answer she can come to makes her feel a little sick: that she's read him all wrong and he's not truly all that interested in her, that he doesn't trust her. That Brienne has started opening up her heart to a man who only wants her body, even tall and broad as she is. She doesn't know how else to make sense of the way he'd looked at her when the lights had gone down after their line dancing with the reality that he's been hiding such a huge fact about his life. That his flirtatiousness, even if he seems to reserve it for her, is simply a little light fun and nothing else. That a couple of weeks ago when they'd gone to their regular concert and they'd barely talked about the music, that had just been because Jaime no longer needed her input. That in truth he probably never had. 

God, has he only been humoring her all this time? When she thought he _liked_ her?

Pity for herself, anger at him, floods her, until she's gripping the wheel of her truck so tightly her fingers ache. Once they'd taken their interactions out of the bar, he'd owed her the truth, whatever his feelings for her were. She hates feeling duped, has done everything she could since she was small to avoid being laughed at, until her first instinct when someone is nice to her is to make them prove it rather than accept it. Had she only accepted Jaime because he was beautiful and she was desperate? Does he tell stories about the silly country girl that he's been tricking for months?

As Brienne speeds along the highway toward Selwyn's, she shuts off Jaime's music and turns the radio up loud, trying to drown out the embarrassed pounding of her own heart.

* * *

Safely back in the parking lot at Selywn's, Brienne takes a few minutes more and uses her slow connection to google Jaime. There's a lot out there about him as a child star, from his meteoric rise on the coattails of the song he'd sung to honor his mother who'd died, to a truckload of rumors about why he'd so abruptly quit performing just a few years later, and the protracted legal battle his family had waged with the label because of it. The final outcome had been sealed off and Jaime's teenage years were mostly gossip items about him getting drunk and high, trashing places and getting in fights. Which would explain why he'd been so insistent about the heckler from weeks ago. Then abruptly there's nothing in the news or magazines about him again until his name became associated with his father's company, Lannister Development, a wealthy property development business. It seems like at least a quarter of the buildings in Nashville are theirs, based on her searching. Which means he's probably rich, and her offering to watch Belle to save him some money is yet another thing she can add to the embarrassing pile. 

There's also no record of any marriages, which fills her with relief even when she has no right to feel that way. 

Brienne goes inside after that, fills her father in on Galladon and leaves out Jaime entirely, before taking her shift back. The rest of the afternoon passes slowly, and every single time the door opens, even when it's still far too early for him, Brienne looks to see if it's Jaime. Eventually, a quarter after six, it is. She'd half-expected him not to show up at all. 

He looks so different from how he'd been just hours before that it stuns her, this alternate universe version of himself. He's much earlier than usual, and though a few people notice his entrance right away, he doesn't even pause to recognize when they call his name. Instead, he strides towards her with grim determination all over his handsome face, unstoppable as a storm. When he gets near enough, she sees the lightning flash of worry in his eyes. 

“Brienne,” he says, interrupting the man who's trying to order a beer. “I need to talk to you.” 

She wants to hear what he has to say; and she also doesn't. There's so much she wants to know, but what if he's only here to laugh at her? Or to say goodbye? 

“I'm working,” she tells him, and Jaime glowers at her. As if it's _her_ fault his charade has been unmasked. 

“Then stop working. We need to talk.” 

“I have customers.”

“Get Jon to cover them.” 

Jon is already helping someone else, and the man Jaime had cut off looks annoyed. The customer's face isn't familiar, and she wonders if he knows the man he came to see is standing right next to him. 

“He's busy, too,” she says. 

“Dammit, Brienne,” Jaime growls, grabbing the edge of the bar. “I'm not leaving until you talk to me.”

“You have to play eventually.”

“I won't get on that stage until I can explain.” He takes in a deep breath and she can see him forcing his shoulders down, see the way he purposefully relaxes his jaw. “Please,” he says softly. “I owe you that, in case you want to just throw me out first.” 

That doesn't make her feel any better. 

“Fine,” she relents. “Let me help him, and then we can talk.” 

Jaime exhales loudly, a relieved burst. “Good. Thank you.” 

She serves the customer a smile that he doesn't respond to, and a beer that he grabs with a grunt, and she lets Jon know she needs to step out for a bit. Jon looks a little nervous, but he nods and gives her a tight smile. 

“Alright, I'm yours,” Brienne tells Jaime, regretting the words the second they leave her mouth. A quick, wry grin flits across his face, but he blessedly lets it lie and follows her outside and around to the side of the bar. The back butts up against a concrete wall, and this little alley has the dumpster and a few collected puddles that never seem to dry and the cloying smell of old alcohol, but it's as private as it gets here. 

Brienne leans back against the wall of the bar, as though being in contact with it will give her some sort of additional strength, and folds her arms across her chest. “Talk.”

He opens his mouth to start, but she pushes off again, too angry to keep quiet. “You lied to me,” she snaps. 

“I never lied.”

Brienne gives him a disbelieving look, but he shakes his head. 

“I never lied,” Jaime repeats, insistent. “I just didn't tell you everything.”

“So much better,” she sneers. 

“Brienne--”

“Why? Were you playing a joke on me? Stringing me along to see if I ever realized?”

“What kind of an asshole do you think I am?” he snaps back. 

“I don't know, Jaime.” She tilts her head up to the sky, but it doesn't help and she looks back down at him again. He looks just like he always had. “I don't know you at all.” 

“That's not true,” he says quietly. “You didn't know my name, or who I _was_. But you know _me_.”

“No, I don't. Are you Colt Thunder? Are you Jaime Lannister? Are you my--” She grabs the rest of that sentence back, barely. She's not entirely sure where it was going to end. “Which one is the real you?” 

“They're all me. Just like the hardworking bartender and the critical coach and the doting daughter are all you.”

She thumps back against the building, hugging herself. “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Would you have helped, if you'd known? If I was spoiled, rich, already-been-there-before-and-fucked-it-up Jaime Lannister instead of poor hapless Colt?” 

She looks up at him, because he sounds so bitter. “So instead you thought _I_ would be the asshole?”

“I've spent my entire life being Jaime Lannister. I know how people think.” 

“Thanks for your confidence.” 

“How the fuck was I supposed to know you would be so...” He gestures, from her toes to her head. “You.” Jaime tugs at the brim of his hat, rubs his hand across the line of his jaw. There's something different about him now from when he's Colt; a rawness that she's glimpsed but never seen so fully. A man begging to be seen, and afraid of it. She knows how that feels. “I didn't want to be Jaime Lannister when I walked into your bar. I know what people think of me. I knew I'd be rusty. It's been twenty years since I've performed and even when I did back then, I was never on my own. But you all would have expected more from me than I wanted to give. You would have treated me like a novelty toy. You would have begged to hear me sing songs my voice hasn't been capable of in decades. And when I kept some of that for myself, when I only played the songs I wanted, you would have told everyone what a terrible person I was, exactly as you'd expected.”

She's willing to concede those points. If she'd known who he was when he'd walked in that first Tuesday, this all might have gone a lot differently. “I guess I get that,” she allows, a rough, grudging acceptance. “I suppose I don't blame you for the stage name. But why didn't you tell _me_?” she asks again, and she's ashamed at the reedy grasp in her voice. 

“I didn't know you, either. Then after a while it just felt easier not to bring it up.” He stares down at the ground. “I was worried you'd leave and I was having a good time with you. I didn't want to mess it up by putting this... thing between us.” 

“You mean your actual identity?” she asks, and he huffs a laugh. 

“I know how idiotic it sounds.” His head lifts, though, and his gaze is steady, and pleading. “I'm sorry, Brienne. I should have told you sooner, especially once we took it outside of the bar.”

“You should have.”

“And I'm apologizing for it,” he says. “You don't have to accept it, but I hope you'll consider it.” 

He _could_ still be lying to her; he'd been caught out today, not come to her first to tell her everything. But he seems sincere, his reasons understandable, if misguided. Brienne's heart is both eager to forgive him and skittish about it. 

“I don't know what to tell you,” she says. Honestly has always been her default position, even when it's the naive choice. 

“What am I missing, Brienne? How do I make this right?” he asks in a voice tight as an over-tuned guitar. 

“Help me understand,” she whispers. “Why you cared what I thought about who you were.” 

“I like you.” He says it like it's as obvious and inevitable as the sunrise. “I didn't tell you my name because I like you and I didn't want you to think of me differently. I'm apologizing now because I like you and I don't want you to hate me for hiding it. I want to keep hanging out with you. I want to--” He sucks his tongue for a second and smiles a little. “To get to know you even better.” 

“Do you even know _my_ last name?”

“Tarth,” he says immediately, and then looks a little guilty. “I googled the bar, and then your dad. It wasn't hard.”

“You don't have to save money on a pet-sitter either, do you?”

“No.” 

“Is there anything else I should know, before I decide what to do?”

“I have a younger brother and a twin sister.” She recalls reading about them in her internet searching earlier. “I work for my father's company arranging land development deals now.” He makes a disgusted face. “The family business, just like you, but a million times worse.” 

“Less drunks, probably.” 

“You'd be surprised. I've never been an alcoholic or a drug addict, no matter what the gossip rags said about me.” He shrugs a little. “That's it, really.” 

Her curiosity is piqued now, and she digs a little deeper, cautiously curious. “The way they talked about you, I kept expecting to hear you'd died of an overdose.”

“Lies told for sales and hits. I smoked marijuana in public once as a teenager and it got spun that I was an addict,” he says with a dark humor. “I _did_ get in some bar fights, trying to defend myself and my past with my fists. I got a tattoo. I dropped out of college. That was when my father threatened to cut me off of the accounts he was still controlling in my name.” Jaime gives her a sour smile. “He was much happier when I got my business degree.”

It matches all the things she'd read, but with a completely different spin. “You could have told me this.”

“In my experience, people prefer to believe the ugly rumors over the boring truth.” 

“You like me but you didn't trust me?” 

“I do trust you. I didn't trust myself to tell you in a way that wouldn't make it worse,” he says, and his face is so sincere that she believes him. And if all of the rest wasn't true, then she wonders if the biggest rumors about Jaime are also wrong. 

“Why did you really stop performing the first time?” she asks, needing to know. “Why are you coming back to it again?” 

“Ah.” He scratches the back of his neck. “My father is the answer to both of those questions. It wasn't my idea to break my contract. None of that was my idea. I loved music, and my mother encouraged me. She got me lessons, she listened to the terrible songs I wrote as a kid, she was the one who got me to perform and eventually arranged for my manager to sign me. My father thought it was unseemly for a Lannister to be an artist, but when she died I'd already signed a contract. I think he thought I'd just wash out, honestly. When I didn't, he ensured that I did.”

“Everybody said it was your fault.”

“It looked that way from the outside, but every decision I made back then, I made with his input.”

“You don't seem like the type to let anyone control you, least of all your father.”

“You haven't met my father.” He purses his lips, considering for a moment before he speaks. “I was young and messed up when my mom died, and then I got fed into the music machine. I wasn't myself when it spit me back out. It took me a long time to remember who I was. Once I did, I thought the music had gone. I still played a little for myself all this time, but anything else seemed like too much. Then a couple years ago my father started pushing me higher up the corporate ladder. Grooming me for the rest of my life.” Jaime grimaces. “I couldn't take it. I panicked. Not even thirty-five and already having a midlife crisis.” 

“At least it wasn't a fancy sports car,” she says, and he grins a little. 

“Might have been cheaper, on the whole. My truck gets terrible mileage.” 

Brienne chuckles a little, and she pushes off from the bar wall, her back cooling when the air rushes by. “Why did you pick Selwyn's?”

“I heard the name around the office, honestly. I don't remember why, maybe someone had come down for one of your concerts. But it stuck in my head when I was looking for places to play outside of Nashville, and there you were when I did a search. Feels like fate, now.” His eyes are warm and sincere, and his smile is open, a hint of pink tongue visible. 

“I don't know if anyone else would have let you play,” she says, feeling her cheeks heat. “I thought you were a stripper that first night.” 

Jaime laughs then, a loud boom that echoes in the alley that suddenly feels far too intimate. “You Tarths and your stripper names.” 

“I don't think this is an opinion solely held by Tarths, Colt.” 

He shifts a little closer to her, and now the alley feels like a matchbox, and herself just as ready to light up. “There's one thing you haven't asked me,” he says, and his voice is as smooth as good whiskey. 

Brienne licks her lips. “What's that?”

“If there's anyone special in my life.” 

“I've already met Belle,” she says, her voice a little high. 

Jaime's smile is slow and full of amusement. “You have. There isn't anyone else, though, in case you were wondering.” 

She doesn't ask why he wants her to know that and she also doesn't retreat back to the wall and she's proud of herself for both. Instead she lifts her chin, even though she's already taller than him, and his eyes flicker in a way that makes her wish it were either a lot darker in this alley or a lot more private. 

“I've made my decision,” she says and Jaime's chest expands under his tight denim shirt. “I'll give you a second chance. But I swear, Jaime, if you lie to me again--”

“I promise I won't. No lies, no hiding things. From here on out, you get all of me.” 

That is far too close to exactly what she wants, and she flushes and looks away. “Good. Then come help Jon and I serve drinks. He's probably backed up and panicking.”

“A worthy penance,” Jaime says, though he hesitates when she starts to walk out of the alley. “I'm glad you know, now, but I want to keep being Colt when I perform. I want to do this on my own merits.”

“All right. I won't tell anybody.”

His shoulders ease down, relief plain on his face. “Thank you. I know if I keep pursuing this it's going to have to come out, but not yet.” He holds out his arm. “For now: may I escort you inside, Miss Tarth?” 

Brienne tries not to smile, but fails terribly as she tucks her hand around his elbow. Her father always says she has a soft, romantic heart. He's not wrong. 

“Thank you, Mr. Lannister,” she says formally. 

Jaime grins gratefully at her response. It's strange, to know so much more about him in the span of a moment and still have their relationship be so undefined. She knows what she wants it to be, even with what he'd foolishly hidden. If she asked him, she thinks he'd tell her what he wanted, too. 

What she doesn't know – what she's not quite ready to find out – is if what they want is the same. Brienne's not naive enough to miss what he's suggesting when he talks about being single. She likes _him_ , too; enough already that she knows turning this physical would make her feelings recklessly deeper. She can't be reckless with a man like this; even his good intentions could hurt her profoundly, and he'll have many of them on his road to success. A road that only leads away from here. From her.

She wants to kiss him, and so much more, but she hasn't decided yet if the cost will be worth it when he inevitably says goodbye.


	8. When I'm this close to you I just can't speak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime's buoyant with relief. He'd spent so much time worrying about the bad outcomes of Brienne knowing his past, of having hidden it from her for so long, that he'd never even considered there might be good ones, too.

Brienne had still been friendly, but more reserved, after Jaime's sincerely-meant apology Friday night – an apology he'd spent so much time thinking about after their run-in at the restaurant that he'd just called off early from work instead of having everyone constantly trying to rein his attention back in. Brienne's demeanor reminded him of when they first met, and though Belle had, indeed, smoothed out some of the rough edges, there had still been a few to bump across when he'd left that evening. 

Monday, while he's in a hideously boring meeting, he decides to take a chance. Scrolling quickly through Google, he finds an awful photo of his eleven-year old self sprawled out on the grass and staring at the camera, with his hair straightened and greased within an inch of its life, and wearing a terrible church-going outfit. It had been ninety degrees during that shoot, and he'd sweated the entire time, begging his dad for ice cream when they were done. Tywin had only gotten him ice water. 

He sends Brienne the picture with the message, _Is this the one you had on your wall?_ and then sets his phone down, nervous that he's stepped over some boundary. She had sent him a couple photos of Belle as he'd asked, but this is his first time reaching out to her. 

His phone vibrates with a return message much sooner than he expects. _No, but if you dress like that now I'll take a pic of it for your flier_ , she replies. He nearly bursts into laughter in the midst of his father's impassioned speech about drainage. 

He texts back, _Still not the worst promo shot from that period_ , and then tries to pay attention to his job.

That fails when she sends a follow-up photo thirty minutes later of one of his truly awful “put the child in a jean jacket and have him vamp for the camera” shots. At least he's out of his meeting by then, but he loses the rest of his afternoon to doing his own internet searches, and to laughing uproariously when she sends him a fuzzy video of himself at eight singing a Dwight Yoakem song so twangy he'd started yodeling halfway through. 

_The Alps are missing you_ she sends with the link, and Jaime is struck with how much he wishes he could see her face in that moment. 

He's buoyant with relief. He'd spent so much time worrying about the bad outcomes of Brienne knowing his past, of having hidden it from her for so long, that he'd never even considered there might be good ones, too. 

On Wednesday, they meet at the dog park as agreed, and she's got a dog cookie for Belle and a human cookie for him. 

“You're spoiling both of us,” he says, taking a big bite. It's a snickerdoodle, warm and fresh. “These are amazing.” 

“I made them,” she admits with a shy smile, and he kisses her cheek, quickly, a mere brush of lips compared to what he really wants to do, then watches a blush spiral red around the hill of her cheeks. 

“Thank you,” he tells her. “Family recipe?”

She nods, touching her cheek lightly. “My mom used to bake all the time for me and Gal. A couple of years ago when I was finishing college courses, I baked mostly to save my sanity.” 

“What'd you take in college?”

“Nothing special. I got an Associates in Business from NSCC. I thought maybe...” She shrugs a little. “I don't know. I thought if Gal were taking over our dad's bar, I'd start my own, maybe closer to downtown. Some small thing that catered to new artists.” 

“That sounds like a fine idea,” Jaime says. “Why don't you do it?”

“Because I'm taking over Selwyn's once my dad retires. There'll be no time or money for another bar.” 

She says it in a straightforward tone, and she doesn't sound disappointed but there's a sadness in those guileless blue eyes that's hard to miss. Jaime doesn't push her, just tucks the info away and then points out Belle's futile attempts at getting a massive Great Dane to play with her. 

As they're leading Belle back out to his truck a while later, he finally gets the courage to ask: “Are you guys closed tomorrow for the holiday?” 

“We close early, since no one wants to come drink at an out-of-town bar when there's no fireworks.”

“Any chance you want to join me down at Riverfront Park for the show?” 

“Really?”

She looks so surprised, even after all these months. “Yes, Brienne, really. I'm not into all the patriotic bullshit, but I do love fireworks.” He grins at her, hoping she'll catch his underlying meaning, and her cheeks do get a little more pink. 

“It's awfully busy there, I don't think I can get off work in time to find a good seat.” 

“I can save us a spot. I'll take the whole day off and park my ass right in front. All you have to do is show up, though if you've got more of those snickerdoodles, I wouldn't say no.” 

Brienne laughs and then nods, and he's got the same feeling of joyful accomplishment like when he used to catch fireflies as a kid; that moment of having something sparkling and easily damaged in your careful grasp. 

“All right,” she assents. “As long as I don't have to wear red white and blue.” 

“God, no. Plaid will do fine. I'm thinking about wearing all red and hoping someone thinks I'm a Communist.”

“Careful who hears you say that, might affect your PR.”

“Can't have that, it's bad enough already. I'll have to re-learn how to keep my big mouth shut, I suppose.”

“You don't have to. You could just change your stage name to Commie Colt.” 

Jaime snorts as he unlocks his truck and shoos Belle inside, then turns to Brienne. “Honestly it's the industry part that makes me think maybe I don't want to succeed again.” 

“You can make your own way this time,” she tells him with the same quiet steadfastness of a mountain. “You're good enough, Jaime, and you can use your past to your advantage.”

“I don't want to use my past at all. But I appreciate your idealism.” Climbing in after his dog, he starts his truck and rolls down the window before shutting the door. Brienne leans her arms on the edge. She's a little below eye level now, but not much. “I'll text you where I'm sitting. Come whenever and save me from being a recluse.” 

Brienne arches one eyebrow; it's golden in the sunset. “I doubt that would ever happen with you.”

“I don't like spending time with most people, Brienne. My brother, my dog. You.” He can see her not believing him again in the slight moue of her lips, the clouds of doubt in her blue-sky eyes. That's all right; he'll find a way to convince her. Even if he has to skip to the kissing to do it.

* * *

Jaime shows up at Riverfront Park before noon, and there are plenty of people already there, even though the actual fireworks are still ten hours away. He's brought a cooler full of food, a blanket, a book, and an extra battery charger for his phone. It'll be hours before Brienne shows up and he'll need to kill the time somehow. He heads straight for the best seating, finding a good spot near the front by the water's edge. The pedestrian bridge arches over the river to the right and in front of them on the other shore is the staging area. 

“Perfect,” he says, dropping his stuff near someone else's blanket and laying his own out, then taking a photo and sending the spot to Brienne. He didn't bother to bring chairs – he prefers the ground, both because he's tall and because it's easier to be near her without plastic and metal between them. There are people milling around, including a surprising amount of families already. Jaime spends some time sitting, leaning back on his hands, and watching normal families doing normal family things. His mom had taken him and Cersei to fireworks a couple of times, and Jaime's sure his dad must have gone, too, but he can't remember Tywin there at all. 

Mostly what Jaime remembers from his childhood are brief flashes of memory followed by the long dark shadow of his mother's death that blurs into the whirlwind few years where he was in the industry. Photographs and concerts in all sorts of venues; his first time in a studio and being scared to death; his last time in the studio and being drained of all inspiration. Jaime had loved performing, but he'd been so young and stuck in the middle of the battles between his father and the label that it had been a relief when he'd been done with it all. 

And now he wants to go back. It doesn't make a damn bit of sense when he thinks of it sometimes, except for when he wraps himself in Brienne's belief that he can do it all better this time. He loves sharing his music, and he's never wanted his past to define his future. It would have been idiotic to give up before he's even tried again. But he's fairly sure he would have if Brienne hadn't served him his whiskey and the truth that first night. 

It's hours before she arrives, and there's plenty to see, so he charms the young family next to him to keep an eye on his things while he's exploring by offering to buy the kids ice cream. The two little boys turn their dark brown eyes towards one of their dads in the most effective pleading look Jaime's ever seen. It works, and Jaime spends most of the hours until Brienne arrives walking around and imagining all the things he'd talk to her about if she were there. He stops at one of the side stages to study and enjoy the acts for a bit, gets some food and a single beer, and avoids several roving bands of college students who try to adopt him into their parties. 

A little before six he's flopped down on the blanket again and watching the two dads trying to convince their ice cream-fueled twins to stop wrestling on the grass, when a shadow falls across his legs. He blinks up into the sun and breaks into a wide smile. 

“You made it,” he says, patting the blanket next to him. Brienne sits down and stretches her legs out in front of her and Jaime doesn't hear a single word she says because she's wearing shorts today, denim ones that ride up mid-thigh and expose the long, freckled expanse of what she's been hiding under her jeans. _Oh fuck_ , he thinks, his palms itching to rub all the way down and back up again. 

“Jaime?”

“What? Sorry,” he says hastily, shifting and bringing his knees up to his chest. 

“I asked how your day's been.”

“Fine, fine. I'm glad you're here, though. I like your hat,” he says, tugging on the brim of the dark brown cowboy hat she's wearing. Her thin, pale hair is in her usual braid, and the hairs are slipping free like usual, too, as reluctant to do what they're told as Brienne herself. “The main concert starts in a little bit.” He nods at the stage not too far away and she smiles. 

“It's nice to do something like this. Usually Dad and I just light sparklers and call it a night.” 

“Better than me,” he admits. “Usually I watch the fireworks on TV and keep an eye on Belle.” 

“Oh,” she gasps, frowning. “She'll be okay alone, won't she?”

“Mostly she gets confused by fireworks, not anxious, but Arya's with her, anyway, and Belle is ruthless asking for petting. She'll be fine.”

Brienne opens up her backpack and shoves a Ziploc bag full of cookies into his chest. When he takes them, they're still warm. “I made some before I left,” she says, and Jaime immediately pulls one out of the bag and eats it. “Consider it payment for being here alone all day.”

“Paid in full,” he tells her. “Come on.” He scrambles to his feet and pulls her with him. Her hand fits in his perfectly before he lets her go again. “Let me show you around.” 

He backtracks over much of what he'd already seen earlier, but it's better this time with Brienne there. She's funnier than he expects sometimes. Usually she tends towards seriousness, but her dry observations on everything from drunk revelers to the array of fried foods to the pervasiveness of flag-print bikini tops makes him laugh repeatedly. 

It takes them awhile to wind their way out of the grassy seating area, then around the festivities and back again. By the time they've gotten food and drinks and consumed it all, there's a sea of people settling in for the evening and the concert is already in full swing. 

There's also, Jaime sees, a two-step area, and he takes Brienne's hand again, tugging her arm gently. “We should dance,” he says, raising his voice over the music. 

“I-I don't know,” she stammers, watching with eyes as wide and swirling as the circle of dancers.

“It's a beautiful night for it,” he tells her. The moon is a slim crescent on the horizon while the sun has set in the other direction, leaving a pink and purple trail behind. There are golden lights strung from all the trees and the concert stage is a kaleidoscope of colors. 

“I haven't two-stepped in years,” she says. “I think my dad might've been the last person I danced with.” 

“I haven't either. We'll trip over our feet together.” He tugs again, gently, keeping his grip on her hand loose, but she moves with him this time and he doesn't break into a victorious run, but it's close. Brienne's laughing a little as he hurries them that way, one hand in his, the other clutching her hat to her head. 

“I hope we don't lose our seats,” she says, leaning in so he can hear her over the band as they get nearer. She smells like sunscreen, and the spicy wings she'd had for dinner. He wants to kiss her so badly he has to lean away a little. 

“I don't care if we do, it's worth it.” He eyes the dancers moving in pairs, from the very basic to a few couples doing truly fancy spins and other maneuvers. 

Brienne leans near again. “Don't try to spin me,” she tells him. 

“Let's just aim for not stepping on each other's feet,” he agrees. Her hand tightens in his and he watches her taking it all in. She looks as nervous as though she's about to step up on the stage. “We don't have to do this,” he says. 

She furrows her brow and presses her lips together like a very determined toddler. Jaime bites back a smile. “No, I want to.” Brienne inhales deeply and then nods. “Let's do it.” 

Jaime turns to face her and takes her other hand in his, walking backward into the current of dancers, drawing her with him. They get swept up immediately and she grabs onto his waist when he lets her left hand go. Her fingers slide to his belt and Jaime focuses very intently on curling his right hand over her shoulder and keeping a respectful distance between their bodies. He's got her right hand aloft in his left, and he uses that clasped point of contact to direct them around. Brienne follows his lead, though he suspects a lot of that is because she's not comfortable yet. They're halfway through the circle when she steps on his foot for the first time, and immediately stumbles to a halt. 

“Woah, no stopping in the dance line,” he says, urging her on before they get run into by others. A few couples behind them go swerving around, and when one of the men shoots them a dirty look, Jaime flips him off behind Brienne's back. 

She steps on his boot again but keeps going after only faltering for a moment, and then he steps on her foot and they both laugh. They keep moving, settling into it with every step, and her hand runs up his back, the fingers brushing along his ribs. He's aware of every point the pads of her fingers are pressing into his black t-shirt, of how when he presses his thumb along the wrist of her other hand her pulse is beating rapid as a rabbit's. 

Jaime allows himself to look down at her legs one time, her boots dark against her muscled calves, her freckles visible even from here, and then he doesn't dare look down again because his jeans become ever-so-slightly too tight and they're surrounded by people. Instead he focuses on her eyes, hidden under the brim of her hat and as deep blue as the sky turning to twilight all around them. Her lips part a little when she meets his gaze, and he feels like they're floating as they step and move in time. 

“I want to try something,” he says. “Do you trust me?” 

Brienne nods a little and Jaime removes his hand from her firm shoulder to take the one she's got on his side, and without missing a beat he lifts her arm up and over her head, twirling her body so she's shuffle-stepping next to him facing in the same direction, his arm now around her shoulders, her arms crossed in front of her where she's still holding his other hand. 

She gives a joyful little laugh and turns her head to look at him. Brienne is beaming, her whole face glowing like there's a lantern under her skin, and Jaime returns her smile with every ounce of his feelings for her behind it. Everything's heightened as they move in time – the music, the lights, her moon-bright eyes, but he's still stunned when she leans in and kisses him full on the mouth. 

Jaime barely has time to register it before she pulls her head away, her whole face red and tight with obvious shock. He stops there in the middle of the river and the other dancers break around them. 

“You said we shouldn't stop,” she whispers, breathless. 

“I was right,” he says, his arm tightening around her to hold her close so he can kiss her back. 

It's awkward with the angle to keep their hats from colliding, but Brienne sighs into his mouth at the first touch of their lips and he'd break his damn neck for this if he had to. Their second kiss is gentle, a confirmation that they both want what's happening. Once Jaime has the answer, he nips at Brienne's lower lip and her mouth opens to him and he's ready to devour her there until someone yells, “Go make out somewhere else, assholes!” 

They break apart, though they keep their hands entwined. 

“That's a mighty good idea,” Jaime says, and then he's shoving his way out of the dance circle with Brienne in tow. They step over legs and feet and small children to get back to the blanket. Everything's still where they left it, though people have encroached heavily on the spot. 

“Pardon us,” Jaime says as he sinks to the ground with Brienne. Her legs are luminous in the darkness and he knows this is not at all the place or time to kiss his way up their length but he's thinking about it very intently. 

Brienne is tense as she crosses her legs and then folds her arms over her body, and he frowns at her a little, tilting his head to meet her eyes under her hat. 

“Whatever you're thinking, that wasn't a fluke,” he says. “I want to kiss you again. Can I?”

She gives a small, encouraging nod, and he lifts her hat up so he can see all of her in the light refracting off of the river. The broad plane of her forehead, the winding road of her nose, her cheeks flushed and pink. 

Jaime runs his palms over those cheeks, trailing his thumbs over the freckles there, and when Brienne's lips part he surges forward and kisses her deep – his questioning tongue and her answering sigh, as hot and endless as the summer night. She's sweet and bold at once, and he'll never touch a drop of alcohol again if he can keep getting drunk on her taste. Her hands fist in the back of his t-shirt, her legs shift and expand and he reminds the small part of himself not already lost that they're very much in public, and he gentles his kisses, lingering and savoring as much as he can. There's so much of her to savor, he can happily spend all night there at her lips. 

When the fireworks start, he watches them in her eyes and it's the best show he's ever seen.

* * *

Jaime doesn't try to take Brienne home. He wants to – god, does he want to – but there's still something in the way she walks next to him when he escorts her back to her truck after the show is all done that has him holding off. He kisses her again before she goes – he won't let her shy away from that if he can help it – but he wants to give her time. Whether it's time to get used to the idea of kissing him or time to decide if she'd just been sun-drunk and made a mistake, he's not sure. He hopes like hell it's the former, though. 

He watches Brienne's tail lights disappear into the night, and on the walk back to his own truck he thinks about her. About her laugh, about the way she'd felt in his arms, about the sound she'd made when she'd slid her tongue against his. When he gets home, he thanks Arya, tips her triple for the late hour, and while Belle snuggles next to him on the couch, he writes a whole stanza on the song he's been struggling with. He falls asleep slumped back against the cushions.

When Jaime wakes up the next morning, it's some of the best work he's ever done – and it's obvious exactly how much trouble he's in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three things! 
> 
> First, [this](https://live.staticflickr.com/2512/4231926385_fa661b1eba_b.jpg) is a good approximation of child country singer Jaime. 😄
> 
> Second, if you'd like a song to give you the vibe of what they were two-stepping to, [George Strait's "I Just Wanna Dance With You"](https://youtu.be/z5Fbcmsp-5s) is a great one. 
> 
> Finally, if you've never seen two-step or aren't sure how it could be fun or romantic, [this scene from Hope Floats](https://youtu.be/Jt0kFbvL7yg) does a great job with it. (On a side note: Hope Floats is a great movie where the romance is honestly kind of secondary to the story about Birdie (Sandra Bullock) re-discovering herself, having lots of Mom feelings in both directions, learning you can go home again but you've got to deal with what you've left behind, and how to build a family from disparate, broken parts. it also has one of the most charming and heart-wrenching child actresses I have ever seen. And Harry Connick Jr, who I don't normally care for, is the most charming and attractive he's ever been, IMO.)


	9. The harder I try to resist you, the weaker I seem to be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne wipes at the same spot on the bar she's been idly moving her towel over for a while, and thinks again about last night. 
> 
> _I kissed Jaime._
> 
> _He kissed me back. A lot._
> 
> _What the hell was I was thinking?_

Brienne wipes at the same spot on the bar she's been idly moving her towel over for a while, and thinks again about last night. 

_I kissed Jaime._

_He kissed me back. A lot._

_What the hell was I was thinking?_

She'd been caught up in the exhilaration of the dancing, had given in to the atmosphere and the music and the drive to just _be_ for a moment. Had been overwhelmed with the way he'd been shining next to her, _for_ her. She'd wanted nothing more than to kiss him, so she had. It had been impossible to ignore how much Jaime had enjoyed kissing her back, first in the middle of all those people, and then on his blanket. They'd eventually stopped kissing to watch the fireworks show, but she doesn't remember it well at all. There had been no way the explosions in the sky could have been louder than the beating of her own heart, not with the memory of Jaime's hands cradling her head, his soft lips pressed against hers. Not with the memory of his tongue-- well. She flushes a little and scrubs harder at the imaginary dirt. The man had been good with his tongue. 

They hadn't just watched the show, though. There'd been slow, lingering kisses, and brief, potent desirous ones, and Jaime's hands had strayed to her neck, to slip beneath the straps of her shirt and touch the skin of her shoulders hiding there. But he'd been a gentleman in every other way, and by the time the grand finale was painting the night sky in colors and smoke, her lips were swollen and her body was on fire and she'd wanted him more than she'd ever wanted a man. 

But he'd only packed everything up, walked her back to her truck, kissed her one last time, tenderly, and watched her drive away. 

It's for the best, she tells herself repeatedly. Two days ago she wasn't even sure she should kiss him at all. How much can change in a single summer night. 

“Uh, Brienne?” Jon's at her elbow, staring at her with his wide, worried eyes. “Did you hear me?”

“Sorry, Jon, no. What did you say?”

“I asked if you were all right. You've been standing there for fifteen minutes. The bar is clean,” he says gently. 

“Oh. I'm fine. Just distracted.” She gives him her best smile, but the smile he returns is skeptical. “How was your Fourth?” she asks. 

“Pretty good. I got together with Sam and Edd and we lit off some small firecrackers from Sam's driveway. What about you? Was yours okay?” 

He still looks so concerned that she's compelled to tell him the truth. “It was great, honestly. I went down to Riverfront Park with Jaime.” 

“Who's Jaime?”

Brienne blinks at him, and then huffs a short, dry laugh. She'd gotten so used to calling him Jaime outside of the bar, she forgot he was only ever Colt inside of it. “Right. Jaime is Colt.”

Jon's eyes go wide and surprised. “You went on a date with Colt?”

She supposes it had been a date, though she hadn't been sure it was when he'd asked her. Given how the night had ended, it's hard to say it was anything but. Brienne feels a rush of blood in her face, her ears growing hot. She nods a little and Jon grins. 

“No wonder your head's in the clouds today.” He sits down on the stool, because it's mid-afternoon and there's no one there yet. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

“There's not much to talk about,” she hedges. 

“That worn-down corner of the bar would beg to differ,” he says, and she smiles sheepishly. She and Jon have worked together for a while, but they're both private people, mostly keeping their discussions light and about the bar. Still, it would be nice to have someone to talk to that won't poke fun at her like her brother. 

“We sort of... kissed.” 

“Ohhh,” Jon sighs dreamily. “I bet he's a good kisser.” 

“He is,” she says, and she can hear the blissful tone in her own voice. 

“Kissing under the fireworks sounds pretty romantic to me.” 

“It was,” she admits. It had been everything she would have wanted from a date, now that she thinks about it in that framing. They'd had fun, he'd coaxed her to dance, there'd been kissing with the promise of more. 

Jon stills her hand, where she's back rubbing at the invisible spot on the bar. “Then why do you look so distressed?”

_Because he's going to leave, and I don't want him to_. 

She's saved from answering by her dad's unexpected arrival. His face is drawn and haggard when he steps in the door, but he gives her a smile. 

“Hi, Angel,” he says. “Don't mind me, I just need to do some paperwork I didn't get to yesterday.” 

“I can help,” she tells him. “It's my fault anyway.” He'd closed the bar down alone so she could leave early to bake and make it to the park. 

“Nonsense,” he says. He passes by the bar and reaches across it to brush his big hand over her hair. It's a familiar motion, done with love, but there's something sad about the way he's looking at her. “You keep getting ready. Should be having the early crowd show up any minute.” Selwyn looks around the bar, taking it all in. “You've done such a good job here,” he murmurs. 

“It's just keeping up what you started.” 

Selwyn pats the bar, softly for a man with such large hands, and hurries to the back. Brienne watches him until he shuts the door and when she looks at Jon, he has the same confused look she feels. 

“Do you think everything's all right with him?” Jon asks quietly. 

Brienne stares at the door. “Yeah, I'm sure it's fine,” she says, not quite believing herself.

* * *

Selwyn's starts filling up early that night, and the energy of the bar is a live-wire that sparks hotter with each arrival. Brienne suspects it's because of the long weekend, since Jaime hasn't even arrived yet. She'd hoped that he'd come early so they could talk or, perhaps, do other things before the show, but it's near seven-thirty before he gets there. There's a line of people for drinks, so when the door opens and it's finally him, all she can manage is a brief, harried smile before she's forced to focus on work. He's looking right at her from the moment he steps inside, and she can feel his eyes on her even when he gets swarmed by his regular greeters. 

It's not that the same people come every week – though there are a number she's seen here multiple times by now, including Ellaria, Catelyn, Lyanna, and Lysa, who have branded themselves the Colt Thunder Fan Club with shirts to match – but that the word of who he is has spread enough that people have expectations of him. Selwyn's has never had a truly recognizable act before, and Brienne wonders if she shouldn't have him start coming in the back door from now on instead, especially since he's bringing Belle. 

_Shit. Belle_. She glances at Jon, who's working by her side, the same slightly panicked look on his face he always gets when she presses him into service behind the bar. He's a genius with the audio and lights, a shockingly good hand at fixing the many things that break in an old building like this, and terrified still of bartending. She can't leave him alone here on a busy Friday. 

“Hey,” she says, catching his attention. “Colt's here. Can you help him with Belle and then get him set up? I've got this.” 

Jon nods gratefully and finishes up his current order before busting ass out of there to the safety of somewhere not behind the bar. Brienne manages to jump between Jon's line and hers without anyone getting too mad, and though most people are uninterested in her apologetic smiles for the delay, they're also mostly tipping. If these numbers keep up, there might even be money to hire another bartender, at least for Fridays and some of the overflow they're getting on Saturdays now. If the people keep coming. If Jaime stays. 

Brienne doesn't allow herself to think of that. She focuses on the drinks, hears the faint sounds of the back room door closing that means Belle is safely tucked away inside, catches the tuning of Jaime's guitar for audio testing. He's played so many times for them that he doesn't need much prep anymore, but it makes Jon comfortable and Brienne likes to watch Jaime when he arrives early enough to allow for it. 

There's not time for any of that tonight, and Jaime is well into his first song before she serves the last, impatient patron and sends them to their seat to enjoy the show. He's good tonight, though he seems distracted. Jaime glances her way more than usual, and four songs in, she's desperate for the show to be done so they can talk. 

Finally, it is. She closes tabs and Jaime talks to fans and Jon helps with clean-up, and then it's just her and Jaime and Jon, and then Jon leaves, too, though he gives her an obnoxious wink when he does. 

Once the door closes behind Jon, Brienne is steeling herself to face Jaime, when abruptly he's there behind the bar with her, his hands sliding into her hair, and he pauses, a few inches away, like he's waiting for permission to go further. She curls her fingers around the collar of his shirt and drags him into her, kissing him hard. 

So much for good intentions. 

It's as good as it had been last night – better, maybe, because there's salt along the top of his lip and they're not surrounded by thousands of strangers, and this time their bodies are pressed against each other, too. 

Jaime tugs his head away first and breathes out in a rush. “Hi,” he says and she laughs a little. 

“Hi.” She licks her lips and tastes him there. “You were late today.” 

“Work kicked my ass. And there was another accident on the highway. That's a dangerous stretch, apparently.” 

His pelvis is still slotted neatly against hers, and she can feel how the interest in his eyes is being reflected down lower. 

_We need to talk_ , she thinks, and though she wills herself to say it out loud, she kisses him again instead, promising herself it will just be quick. But his lips open to hers immediately and his tongue is wet and inviting and Brienne arches up against him with a low moan. 

Jaime breaks the kiss first again and nuzzles into her neck, his hat pushed back from his head, his hips rolling a little against her, and he's hot and hard, but undemanding. 

“I intended to talk to you before I kissed you again,” he says ruefully, and Brienne's answering laugh is loud in the empty bar, reverberating through the neatly stored glasses.

“Me, too,” she tells him. She feels his answering chuckle with her chest and hips. 

He touches his lips to the curve of her neck, eliciting a small shiver. “I take it you're all right with this, then?”

“Yes,” she says, her voice high and needy. He's pressing small kisses all along her skin, up to her ear, where he nibbles at her earlobe and a wash of ideas about how to put the bar to use overwhelms her. 

“We should go on a date,” he breathes into her ear. “An official one, where you know it's a date. I feel like I tricked you into the last one.” 

“You did.”

“I needed it to be malleable, in case you weren't actually interested in me.” 

It's distracting having his lips so near her body as he talks, and she pushes him back a little, palms against his firm chest. His eyes are dancing with mischievous joy. 

“You can't woo me with your fancy words, Colt,” she informs him with mock seriousness. 

“I have to be sure you don't still think I'm a stripper.”

“Strippers are plenty smart,” she says. “I'm more worried about how easily manipulated you are by your brother.” 

“Do you want to meet him?”

The sudden question throws her off-step and Brienne stares at him. “What?”

“My brother. You should meet him. He'd love you.” 

Meeting his family seems like a truly terrible idea, worse even than kissing him. She's in this now, but it has to stay fun, and light, and it's hard enough fighting her own heart when it's just him and his dog standing there. “Maybe we should go on that date first?”

Jaime's excited smile dips a little, but he nods. “Of course. I forgot all those other times weren't technically dates.” His hands are curved around her hips, and she feels his thumbs rub slow paths back and forth along the top of her jeans. He's not helping her resolve in the slightest. “I want to, you know. Woo you.” 

Her whole face goes hot. Few men have ever even wanted to date her before, let alone put in the sort of effort that wooing suggests. Brienne glances down at her hands on Jaime's shirt, the span of them covering his broad chest. She's always been bigger than the men she's kissed, but she doesn't feel awkward with Jaime. He's taller than they were, for one, but there's some solid core to him that the others didn't have. Something that makes Brienne feel steady in his arms. It's comforting – and dangerous. She can't lean too heavily on him now when she'll only have to take all the weight back later. 

“That's silly,” she finally manages to say. “It's the twenty-first century, people don't do that anymore.”

“What kind of a good Southern boy would I be if I didn't?” 

“I've heard your songs,” she says dryly. “You don't seem much interested in being good.” 

The grin Jaime gives her only supports the truth of her assessment, but he brings his hands up to cover the tops of hers and says: “I didn't start this off between us the right way. I want to make it up to you. Besides.” He lifts her hands from his chest, and kisses each palm with the slow reverence of a penitent. Her breath catches in her throat. “You deserve it.” 

It's impossible to deny him like this, especially when she doesn't want to. She likes the way he looks at her, whether he's up on stage or close enough their thighs are touching. 

“If you insist,” she says. 

“I do.” He flips her hands over and kisses the knuckles. He doesn't seem bothered by how rough they are. “I've got a gig in Nashville Monday night, so: Wednesday?” 

“Wednesday. But send me the information about where you're playing. I'll try to make it.” She already knows she will; it's not like she's busy, and if she were, she'd make room for him anyway. 

Jaime gives her a surprised, happy smile, and she wonders about this brother he's mentioned and the sister he hasn't. Whether he's got any friends that want to watch him succeed. “Yeah? That would be great. I booked some session musicians to join me.”

“What?” she gasps, shoving him a little. “I've been waiting to see you with a band! Tell me you've got a steel guitar.” 

“Of course I do,” he scoffs. “And a fiddle player. We're practicing this weekend.” 

“Then I'll be there on Monday.”

“I expect notes,” he says, kissing her quickly and then stepping away entirely. “But I should get Belle and go before I break the promise I just made.” 

She almost tells him she wants him to – maybe it will make all of it easier if they jump straight to sex and skip all the rest. It's not like her heart doesn't already beat a little faster when he walks in the room. He settles his hat on his head and goes to collect Belle, and Brienne follows slowly after, watches him kneel down and scratch his dog all over, talking to Belle and asking how her night was. He says something quiet and then they both look at Brienne and her heart does a twirling, stomping two-step right in her chest. 

_Well, shit._

Deep behind her own delusions, she knows resisting him is not really the goal. Now she's preparing for when he inevitably leaves her behind to start his career. It's gonna hurt, whenever it happens, but she'll try to enjoy this while she can. Try to reel her heart in so she doesn't get too attached. 

“Belle says she wishes she could come with us on Wednesday, but I told her this is a humans-only date.” 

Brienne leans against the doorjamb, wrapping her arms around herself. “Maybe next time,” she says. 

“You hear that?” Jaime tells the dog, who tilts her head and pants excitedly at him. “There's gonna be a next time.” 

_I'm in so much trouble_ , Brienne thinks.

* * *

Jaime's Monday show is at The Second Fiddle, a bar on Lower Broadway, right in the middle of true downtown Nashville. Brienne dresses up a little: a nice pair of black jeans, her cleanest boots, a blue shirt with white fringe that she'd bought a few years ago and shoved in the back of her closet. She does her hair up in a braid knowing it won't stay that way the whole night with how thin and limp it is, but meeting Jaime isn't just meeting Jaime anymore. Now it's _dating_. 

She presses her hand to her nerve-laden stomach and stares at herself in the mirror. With the hat on as a last touch she looks... well, like herself. But Jaime hasn't had a problem with her so far, and she thinks he'll find the fringe cute, even if she doesn't look cuter wearing it. From heels to hat she's nearly six-foot-eight, she's not sure it's physically possible for someone that tall to be cute. 

“It doesn't matter,” she tells her reflection. If Jaime had wanted cute, he could have had one of his fan club, or the women at the line-dancing bar, or even the owner of the corgi at the dog park that he hadn't seemed to notice but that Brienne had been very aware of. When he does notice, he turns them away, polite but firm, and then he turns to her instead, every time. 

Brienne doesn't know what to do with that, with how it makes her heart so full it hurts. All she can do is set it aside and pretend it doesn't mean that much to her. 

She's late to their meeting time, as usual, and she finds him outside talking to a bald man in what is clearly a pair of designer jeans and an expensive button-down shirt. Jaime's watching for her, and she can tell when he sees her because he straightens immediately, and the other man says something and Jaime just nods and shakes his hand and the man hesitates before walking off. 

When Brienne gets near, Jaime's got his thumbs shoved in his pockets and he's rocking back and forth on his heels. “Look at you,” he says in greeting, positively beaming at her. “You dressed up for me.” 

He looks incredible, of course: short-sleeved plaid button-up, blue jeans showing wear along the tops of his thighs, hat settled at a slight angle on his head. She wants to kiss him, but she's not sure she should out here, until he leans up on his toes and kisses her first, fresh and welcoming, and then he rocks back again. 

“I knew you'd be late, so I got them to save you a spot and a drink.” 

“Sorry, I--”

“Underestimated parking again. I know, darlin',” he says, grinning, and the endearment feels more real now, in a way that unfurls a little lick of warmth in her belly. “Come on.” 

Jaime takes her hand and leads her inside. There's no cover charge so he goes right past the bar, to a young man sitting on a tall stool at a small circular table. 

“There you are!” the man says, obviously relieved. “Was worried you weren't going to make it in time. You must be Brienne.” 

She shakes his hand and the man stands, offering her the seat with a flourish. “This is yours.” 

It's near the front and she glances back over her shoulder guiltily. “I'm sorry, I can't sit here. I'll be blocking people's view.” 

The young man looks at Jaime, who waves him away. “I don't care if other people can see me,” Jaime tells her once they're alone at the table. “I want _you_ to be able to.” 

“I can see just fine from the back.” 

“You don't have to be shoved to the side, Brienne,” he says, and there's something urgent in his words, but she's too nervous and slow to understand it. “But if it really bothers you, take off your hat.”

“I don't want to take off my hat. I want to sit in the back where I won't block anyone.” 

Jaime frowns and she braces for him to fight her further, but he shakes his head once, sharply, and then gestures at the young man who's retreated to the bar. “You deserve to sit wherever you want,” Jaime tells her quietly, and then he addresses the young man when he walks up. “Pate – please help my girlfriend find a space she's comfortable.” 

Brienne's face flames with heat, stoked further when Jaime winks at her. _Girlfriend_. It's juvenile to be so flustered by a word that only defines what's already going on between them. Knowing that doesn't stop it from happening, though. 

“Yes, Mr. Thunder,” Pate says. 

That makes her snort a little, and Jaime shoots her a dry look before leaning in to kiss her. “Why don't you ever call me Mr. Thunder?” he murmurs in her ear after, and she pushes him away with a choked laugh. “Enjoy the show, darlin'.” 

He tips his hat to her and saunters towards the green room, and she leans into the girlfriend thing for a moment to enjoy watching him walk away before she lets Pate find her a spot near the wall. It's a little hard to see the stage, but it also gives her a view of the audience, and when the house lights go down, it's thrilling to watch their hands go up in welcome as first the band and then Jaime take the stage. 

He's got a drummer, a slide guitarist, and a fiddle player, as promised. The drummer is a hulking man with lank black hair covering half his face, the fiddle player is a lovely young woman with bouncing brown ringlets and very tight jeans, and the steel guitarist is a thin, older man with a serious face and almost no hair. They make an odd bunch up there, but Jaime attracts most of the attention anyway. He starts with his usual opening song, but after his first burst of guitar, the fiddle joins him, sharp and electric, and then the drums, and suddenly Brienne can see Jaime's entire career expanding before her. 

His songs had been great before, but she'd never appreciated the complexity of them until this moment, when the additional instruments make them three-dimensional and soaring. He rides on top of the sound, his voice never lost in the full wave, but leading it. The steel guitar makes Jaime's wailing pain bite harder, the fiddle makes his rough edges coarser. Halfway through, the crowd is wild with excitement. By the end, it feels transcendent, like they all know something remarkable was born here. Jaime high-fives his fiddle player after the encore, shares a grin with the drummer and guitarist, and then he peers out into the crowd. People wave and holler back, but she knows he's looking for her. For an instant Brienne wants to run; if she leaves immediately it'll hurt his feelings, but he'll be grateful later when he understands how she set him free. 

She doesn't, though. Whether it's because she's too lonely or too selfish, she doesn't want to let go until he shakes her off for good. 

So she waves a little and his return smile is like a lightning flash in the dark. Brienne sits at the small table while Jaime talks to people, though he lets the bar staff the merch table for him. There are the usual albums and he's added stickers and plain gray t-shirts with his stage name. From what Brienne can see, they're all selling tonight. 

Jaime's crouching at the edge of the stage, his hand resting loosely on his knees, talking to the bald man from before. They appear to be deep in conversation, and the man hands Jaime a card, which Jaime tucks into his back pocket. The two men shake hands and then the bald man is off, walking with a smooth, almost floating gait through the diminishing crowd. 

Brienne finishes off her beer as Jaime pats his steel guitarist on the shoulder, waves to the other two, and then hops down from the stage and heads for her. Her breathing speeds up as he nears, like she can't quite fill her lungs, they're so heavy with anticipation. 

He's sweaty, glowing, and he comes up and kisses her hard. “I like this much better than asking you for whiskey,” he says against her lips, and she chuckles with what little breath she has left. 

“I still have notes,” she says automatically, though she can't think of a single one. 

Jaime leans back, his brows lifting. “You do?”

“They can wait. Who were you talking to?”

“Oh!” He reaches into his pocket and sets a business card down on the table. _JOHN VARYS_ it says in big block letters. _Artist Manager_.

“Artist manager?” Brienne asks. She looks up at Jaime, and he's vibrating with excitement. “Does he want to represent you?”

“He wants a demo. If it goes well, he's interested in signing a contract.” 

“Wow.” She stares at the little card and all that it represents, and then she stands and hugs Jaime tightly, thrilled for him. “This is amazing!”

He squeezes her and lifts her a little off the ground and she yelps in his ear before he sets her down again. His casual strength still surprises her. Not that he has it, but that she's not too much for it. 

“We should celebrate. Get some champagne and Belle and go get drunk in a field or something.” 

“Sounds like my kind of celebration,” she says, grinning. Behind Jaime, she sees the band walking towards them. The fiddle player is chattering but the other two seem uninterested in doing more than listening. 

“Colt!” the woman calls out as they walk up. She's even more beautiful up close than she'd been on-stage: big brown eyes, smooth skin, and a full-lipped mouth currently stretched wide in a smile. “Introduce us to your friend.” 

“This is Brienne,” he announces, like hers might be a name that's come up before. “Brienne, this is Margaery Tyrell, Sandor Clegane,” the drummer grunts in her direction, “and Ilyn Payne.” The guitarist nods solemnly at her. 

“Pleased to meet you,” she tells them. Margaery sticks her hand out and Brienne takes it, her hand swallowing Margaery's small, elegantly-fingered one. Margaery's got a strong grip, though, and her own callouses from fiddle-playing. 

“Colt here talks about you nonstop,” Margaery says, winking at Brienne, and for all her beauty, what Brienne notices most is the other woman's warm friendliness. “We've been looking forward to meeting the remarkable Brienne Tarth.” 

“Oh,” Brienne says, flushing. Jaime's watching her, quietly amused. “Well, I-I'm sure he's overstating it.” 

Margaery looks between them and then grins slyly. “Might be he's _under_ stating other things. Anyway,” she says lightly, “that was a hell of a good time, Colt. You're gonna hire us again, right?”

“Feels like I might not have a choice,” he says dryly. “But I would anyway. Look at this.” He shows them the card, and Sandor grunts again, but this one is impressed. “If you're willing, I'd like to hire you for a demo, and any gigs we get out of it.” 

“Sold,” Margaery says. “I don't know about these two, though.”

“I'm in,” Sandor says in a jagged voice. His hair flutters and Brienne can better make out that it's hiding a deep scar on half of his face. 

Ilyn nods in agreement. He's a strange man, with an odd look to his eyes; not dangerous, but more that he knows too much, even if he'll never use it against you. 

“Great!” Jaime says. “Then Brienne and I are off. I'll be in touch.” 

“It was very nice to meet you, Brienne. Have a good night,” Margaery says with far more meaning than Brienne thought those words were capable of holding. 

Jaime slips his hand in Brienne's and they navigate their way through the bar, Jaime pausing to close out his account with the owner, then they're free in the night. He checks his watch and sighs a little. 

“I've got to get back and let Arya go home.” He looks at Brienne from under his hat, and the question neither of them is asking is a heavy anticipation in her chest. “I'll take you somewhere extra nice on Wednesday and we can celebrate then,” he says, side-stepping it entirely. 

They walk hand-in-hand back to her truck. It all feels so natural, their feet stepping in time, their arms swinging a little. Like they're a couple, like they still could be one months from now. 

“If this manager takes you on, will you tell him everything?” she asks him. 

“Only if I have to. Though if I keep playing in Nashville, my family or someone from work will eventually recognize me.” 

She squeezes his hand and he squeezes back. “Has your family ever seen you play? As an adult, I mean.” 

“Not at a show. Tyrion would say he wants to, but I haven't told him where I'm playing yet.” 

“Why not?”

Jaime chews his lip as he thinks. “My brother loves me, but he's also selfish as hell. It's easier sometimes to not give him a chance to let me down.” He glances at her. “I know how that sounds.”

“I get it,” she says quietly. This time he squeezes her hand first. “I should probably do more of that with Galladon.” 

“Galladon Tarth,” Jaime pronounces it like he's calling her brother up on stage. “I looked him up. He's good at his job.” 

“He loves it. It took him from us, so I guess I'm glad it was worth it.” She tries to hide how much that decision still has its claws dug deep, but Jaime's small, doubting frown suggests she failed. 

“It's not like he died,” he says, and at least his tone isn't judging. 

“I know. But my dad had dreams about seeing his son take over the bar. He hasn't recovered from having those dreams dashed.” 

“He should count himself lucky; he got the better Tarth sibling in the aftermath,” Jaime says, bumping her with his shoulder. “Galladon wouldn't have put up faerie lights.” 

Brienne snorts, loudly. “No, he wouldn't have. He wouldn't have put up with you, either.” 

Jaime throws back his head with his laughter. “Then your daddy got to keep the better child for sure.” 

They're a few steps away from her truck now, and Jaime reluctantly lets go of her hand so she can unlock the door and climb inside. She unrolls her window and he's still a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets. 

“You were great tonight,” she says sincerely. “The best I've ever seen you. You're gonna be a star, Colt.”

“Jaime.”

“You should bring the band on Friday to get more practice together.” 

“I will.” She starts up her truck and he takes a step nearer, wraps his hands on the window edge. “What were your notes?” 

“You were so good, I forgot to take any,” she admits. 

“Your approbation is appreciated,” he says and Brienne shakes her head. 

“How long were you waiting to use that one?”

“All night.” He takes his hat off, leans in and kisses her sweetly, his tongue swiping gently across hers. Brienne sighs into his mouth just before he pulls away, settling his hat back on his head. In the glow of the streetlight his eyes are more gold than green. She imagines they'll capture him just like this for his first album cover. And in twenty years he'll re-do it for a Best Of collection and probably look just as handsome; sell a million copies and earn himself a place in the Country Music Hall of Fame. 

“You're so much bigger than this,” she tells him softly. “You should tell the manager everything right away, if he takes you on. Use it as leverage, launch straight to a label and make them tell the story of who you were and who you've become.”

“It doesn't work like that, Brienne.” 

“It can,” she insists. “Jaime, you can make it work like that.” 

Jaime's eyes hold hers, searching and intense. “You should turn some of that belief on yourself.” 

“I believe in myself just fine. I already know what my life is, and it's what I want: I'll take over Selwyn's when it's my turn. But you're meant for more than a house band at an old bar.” 

“You sure have narrow vision when it comes to your own life.” He seems annoyed, his tone honed to sharpness. “What else do you want, Brienne?”

“I want to go home. I'm tired,” she replies, her edge sliding against his. 

Jaime frowns at her. “You know what I mean.”

“Not everybody gets what they want, Jaime.”

“Why do you think I'll get mine and you won't?”

Brienne stares out the windshield. The light at the end of the block goes from green to yellow to red. “Because everything else I want is impossible,” she tells him. When she looks at him again, he's rigid, his knuckles white where he's gripping her door. “I should go,” she says, revving the engine. 

Jaime takes a step back. “Brienne,” he says, barely loud enough for her to hear over the engine. “It's not all impossible.” He looks so sincere she wants to cry. The wanting is too close to the surface to speak, and she can only nod once and drive into the night. She knows he's watching her drive away, but she doesn't dare look in the mirror to see.


	10. Mess me up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne's got her hands clasped together in front of her, fingers twisted like a pretzel, and those damned eyes are trained on him from almost the moment he spots her. Jaime's thought a lot about those eyes, about the way they'd gone molten when he'd kissed her in the bar, at how they're as changeable and beautiful as the sea. They're wide-open and glowing when he nears, and he can see an entire song in them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're 10 chapters in to a fic that started life in my head as a one-shot! Pausing here for a re-up of extreme gratitude to: my beloved friend and beta, Brynn, who helps tremendously all the time, but especially with these next two chapters; forbiddenfantasies, my darling id buddy and cheerleader extraordinaire who has never once gotten mad at my whining; and ilikeblue, who provided last-minute reassurances and suggestions on these two chapters and who has been truly lovely to get to know. Thank you to everybody who's reading this, too. I did not expect more than about five people to be interested in it and I am constantly grateful for your enthusiasm! 💖

Jaime should have asked to pick Brienne up for their first official date, but they'd fallen into their familiar patterns and agreed to meet in front of the restaurant. He's a few minutes early, which he knows is ridiculous given their history, but _he_ doesn't want to be the late one this time due to some random happenstance. He's nervous as a teenager, too, his palms sweaty as he rounds the corner and sees a tall, familiar form already waiting. 

Brienne's got her hands clasped together in front of her, fingers twisted like a pretzel, and those damned eyes are trained on him from almost the moment he spots her. Jaime's thought a lot about those eyes, about the way they'd gone molten when he'd kissed her in the bar, at how they're as changeable and beautiful as the sea. They're wide-open and glowing when he nears, and he can see an entire song in them. 

“Hey,” she says, in a voice that surprises him with its softness. 

“Hey,” he replies, taking her in. She's got a simple patterned dress on that brushes the bottom of her calves in back but hits just above her knees in front, and the line of muscle outlined by her dark gray tights and extending down into her low black boots is one he's very interested in exploring. Jaime tips up to kiss Brienne quickly, and she responds with the same intensity she has each time before – and just like the other times, it's enough to make him want to drop to the ground with her right where they are. He doesn't, which is frankly a miracle from God, and instead he pulls away, to find her smiling a little, her bottom lip wet. 

“You're early,” he says in a rough voice, and she nods. 

“I knew you'd give me crap if I was late again.” 

Jaime fake-gasps. “It's our first date, I would never.” 

Brienne rolls her eyes but he can see her loosen up – exactly what he'd hoped to achieve. She pulls open the door and gestures for him to enter. “Shall we?”

“Thank you kindly,” he says, tipping his hat. 

They enter and he announces himself for the reservation. Before he has even a moment to slip his arm around Brienne, to nuzzle close and inhale her scent, the maitre'd whisks them to a table tucked into a romantic alcove. A table Jaime had requested specifically for that reason. Jaime pulls out Brienne's chair and she looks at him like he's going to play the same prank with it that Lucy pulls on Charlie Brown.

“I'm being a gentleman,” he informs her, and it's lit just enough inside the alcove that he sees the pale flesh of her chest turn pink before she sits and he helps scoot her in. 

“I can do it myself,” she says as he sits across from her, setting his hat down to the side of the table. 

“I'm aware. But my mama raised me to be courteous.” 

“Well, so did mine, so: thank you.” She unfolds her napkin and sets it with delicate hands in her lap. Jaime's also thought a lot about Brienne's hands. She's so careless with her gestures, though her fingers are long and supple as bowstrings, could play across his body with the same ease, and yet wouldn't look out of place as fists tenderizing a punching bag. It's a lot for his mind to wrap around without putting certain other parts of his body in an awkward situation. 

Brienne opens her menu and then glances up at him. “There are no prices on this.” 

“There are on mine.” 

She huffs and motions for him to hand his menu over. “I hate when restaurants do that. Like a woman is too delicate to see how much things cost.” 

“I _am_ paying,” Jaime says, but he hands his menu over. Her eyes go wide, and then wider still. 

“Jesus, Jaime. A hundred dollars for a steak?”

“It's Kobe beef.” 

“It could be Shaq beef and it wouldn't be worth it.” 

He laughs and picks up her menu. “You should take that act on the road.”

“Only if I can open for you,” she says, and he beams at her. The second time they'd gone to a concert together – and whatever he's said about tonight, he secretly considers those concerts dates, too – they'd gone to coffee afterwards for the post-concert breakdown. Brienne had been focused and helpful, but every time they'd strayed for a minute, she'd snapped back like a rubber band to talking about the music or the bar. Jaime's been waiting for a night like this: where they haven't come from anywhere and they have nowhere else to be. Already Brienne seems to sit more easily in her chair, and he's captivated by the fierce concentration she puts into reviewing the menu, by her lips moving as she silently assesses ingredients, the way she can't hide the occasional flicker of surprise at the price. There's a little line between her brows that Jaime thinks might be the most adorable part about her. 

Eventually she must realize what he's doing because her eyes flick upward and he sees her face go red. “What are you doing?”

“Contemplating dessert,” he says. 

She makes a gaspy little inhale and most of Jaime's blood pools in his groin. “Awfully forward-thinking of you, cowboy. I thought you were wooing me?”

“What do you think this is?”

“You think Kobe beef is going to get you into my pants?”

“I don't see you wearing any pants tonight, darlin',” he says with a slow grin, and she shifts in her chair. 

“Pick your food,” she orders him, but the high squeak of her voice makes it more endearing than threatening. 

“Yes, ma'am.” 

He tries, but he wants _her_ , not a meal he's not going to taste as he rushes through it. _Slow down_ , he tells himself. _There's time enough._

“I think our waiter's coming, are you ready to order?” she asks and Jaime shrugs and closes his menu. He's eaten here before with clients; he'll just get what he always does. They order – appetizer and salads and main courses, with a paired wine and sparkling water – and then Jaime slides his hand across the table, palm up, when their server vanishes again. 

Brienne gingerly sets her hand in his and he wraps his fingers around it. “You look good,” he tells her, dipping his head to track her eyes when they stray a little in embarrassment. 

“So do you.” 

Arya had given him a wolf-whistle when she'd showed up to take Belle to the dog park, but those three words from Brienne mean far more. 

“I don't think I've ever seen you this long without your hat,” she blurts, and Jaime shakes the table a little with his laugh. 

“Someday I'm sure I'll walk right into the shower wearing it, I get so used to it being there.” 

“You didn't wear a hat much when you were performing as a kid.” 

“No, it was hard to find one that didn't make me look even dorkier.” 

Brienne's face expands with an impish smile. Her unleashed playfulness might kill him. “But you think you've achieved that now?”

“That's a blow to my self-esteem, Barkeep.” 

“I'll make it up to you,” she says, before taking a drink of water, and Jaime's mesmerized by the drop that lingers on her top lip when she's done. He wants to lick it off himself. “Have you talked to the manager yet?” she asks, disrupting him. 

“No. It's a big step.” 

“It is. But one you've been working towards. Why hesitate now?”

“You always jump straight into the thing you wanted?” Brienne's lips purse, but she shakes her head. “Once I do this, there's no going backward. You're right: I'm going to have to tell Varys everything at some point. When he knows, then my family will need to know, and the media will know right after. Everything will be upended, even if there's no record label who beats down my door. Hell, that'll just make it worse. I'm not sure I'm ready for public humiliation.” 

She squeezes his hand so hard it presses the bones together a little, but he's comforted by the pressure. 

“I'm sure a label will be thrilled to pick you up.”

“For the headlines, yes.”

“You earned this,” she tells him with a sweet fierceness. “That's the whole reason for Colt Thunder.” Brienne has been cynical and serious and stubborn about every aspect of his performances, but her unyielding belief in him is impossible to match. He wishes she could see she burns twice as brightly as he does, and turn some of that on herself. There isn't any showmanship in Brienne, it wouldn't suit her at all. But the qualities that make her, her – her sense of duty and legacy, her gentle surprise every time Jaime kisses her, the way she steps forward to do things he knows scare her, things like trusting him – that add fuel to the quietly intense fire that is Brienne Tarth. Onstage, people might look to him at the beginning, but they would listen to her in the end. 

“Well.” Jaime raises his water glass towards her. “Long live Colt Thunder, then.” She clinks her glass to his, and the chime sounds like a starting bell.

* * *

When their server comes asking about dessert, Jaime glances at Brienne, and the candle on the table has nothing on the light in her eyes. 

“No, thank you,” he tells the man. He looks back at Brienne. “We're good.” 

Their server is likely relieved; they've been there long enough they could've had thirds of the small-sized portions and still had time to digest it. But the connection and conversation had been so effortless between them, Jaime hadn't wanted to move from his seat until he'd had no choice. 

They're walking back to Brienne's truck and Jaime's cursing himself again for the logistics of two separate vehicles when all he really wants to do is make out with her in one, when there's noise from a nearby bar. Brienne looks over and her mouth opens in a delighted half-moon. 

“They have a mechanical bull!” she says, and they stop and peer inside. The bar – the Wild Beaver Saloon, Jaime sees – is big, and there's a wide, squared-off area inside where a man is currently falling off a mechanical bull with glowing red eyes while the crowd hoots at him. 

“You ever been on one?” he asks her. 

“Once, a few years ago.” The pleasure on her face dims. “I'd always wanted to try it, and the guy I was dating at the time took me, but it didn't go well.” 

Whoever this guy is, Jaime hates him immediately. “What happened? Did you get hurt?” 

“No, I did pretty well. But he didn't, and he couldn't deal with that.” She shrugs a little. “It's not why we broke up, but it didn't help. I don't think he liked me being taller than him in the first place.”

Jaime can see every negative thought she's having in that moment, and he gently takes her chin in his hand and turns her to face him. “Brienne,” he says gently. “Fuck that guy.” 

Brienne bursts into laughter. “Your mama would be so disappointed in you for using that kind of language on a first date.” 

“She'd approve of it in this situation.” There's a woman on the bull now, and she slides off half a second after it starts. “Come on,” he tells Brienne, urging her into the bar. 

“What are you doing?”

“It's time to reclaim your pride.”

“Jaime, I don't have any pride at stake here. I did fine.” 

“Well _I_ haven't seen you, so how do I know you're not lying to make yourself feel better?”

Brienne makes a face at him, and he can't quite hear whatever she mutters because it's so loud in the bar, but he has a pretty good idea. 

No one else seems interested in climbing on the bull and a few of the parties that had been cheering on previous riders dissipate back into other areas of the bar. Jaime nudges Brienne with his elbow and leans in. 

“Well, Barkeep? You gonna get on that thing or what?” 

The mechanical bull has seen better days – its white and brown mottled hide is wearing thin, and there are battered plastic horns that look sharper than Jaime would have expected. Its eyes are red and bright as stoplights as it sits, empty and waiting. 

“It looks demonic,” Brienne says. 

“Then you're the perfect angel to tame it,” he tells her sweetly and she rolls her eyes. 

“Laying it on a little thick there, Colt.” 

“Is it working?”

Brienne sighs, he can feel her breath across his cheek. “Yes. But you have to go, too.” 

“Deal.” They pay their five dollars each to ride the bull, and then Jaime gestures to the arena. “Ladies first.” 

“I don't know how I let you talk me into these things,” she mutters, and then frowns down at her legs. “Hold on,” she says, disappearing towards the bathrooms. Jaime's confused, but he leans against one of the tables lining the corral and waits. He doesn't have to wait too long, and as soon as he sees why she left, his mouth goes dry. 

Brienne's taken off her tights, and her legs look even longer now that her skin is bare. He feels like some old Victorian hero, ready to swoon at the sight of her calves, but they're bunched with muscle and entirely biteable. She sets her tights down on the little table and nods firmly at him.

“Better grip,” she explains and Jaime realizes immediately that this is going to be a problem. 

It gets worse with every moment. Brienne wanders across the air-mattress bottom of the bull's corral and climbs on, swinging one leg so easily up and over the bull that Jaime's stomach clenches. Then Brienne settles in, gripping the small rope hold at the bull's neck, her long thighs digging into the side of the bull, her dress slipping just enough to show the curve of her knee, the slight bulge of her thigh. 

_Holy shit_. 

The bull starts with a jolt, Brienne's chest jerking forward a little, and he can see the tension in her muscles as she holds on with those endless legs of hers and all Jaime can focus on for the next sixty seconds is not hopping the wall and dragging her down off of that bull. It's hypnotic, the way her hips roll, how she raises one arm up towards the ceiling in a pale, elongated line, how her body undulates in a smooth wave that makes his cock swell in his tailored pants almost immediately and doesn't let up when the bull shudders to a stop again. 

She's laughing when she dismounts in a single hop. Her dress flips up to mid-thigh and he grips the table so tightly it creaks. Brienne's cheeks are flushed, the hair in her braid is loose and curling about her face, and Jaime can barely think as she walks awkwardly over the safety floor to where he's standing pressed against the low wall. 

“Your turn, cowboy,” she tells him in a low, pleased voice, and Jaime gives her a tight-lipped grin. 

“I'm gonna forfeit my five dollars,” he says. 

“You're not even gonna try to beat me?” She tsks in feigned disappointment, grabbing her tights. “I thought you had more stamina than that.” 

“It's not my stamina that's the problem, darlin',” he says, and he shifts a little away from the wall and indicates downward with his eyes. Her gaze follows and she inhales sharply when she notices, her neck flooding with red when she looks back up at him. 

“Oh.” 

“Let me take you home,” he says. Pleads, really. 

“Jaime, I--” She looks panicked, and he almost regrets having asked, even if his body is clamoring for it over all good sense. 

“I know you want me, Brienne,” he says, pitching his voice low. Her pupils are wide and she licks her lips and it's answer enough. “So what are you afraid of?” He doesn't want to push her, but he needs to know so he can fix whatever it is. 

“You,” she whispers. It's so soft he doesn't hear her over the sounds of the bar, he only sees her lips shape the word. Her hand flutters towards him for a moment before she turns and hurries for the door. 

Stunned, he watches her go, and then he rushes out after her even as the bartender is shouting about Jaime's five dollars for the bull. He doesn't bother to respond. 

Brienne's easy to spot, though her long legs are eating up the ground so fast Jaime has to jog to catch up to her. She looks over at him when he falls in step, and then looks away again, her gaze straight ahead. 

“What did you mean by that?” Jaime asks, panting a little, trying to keep up when she turns abruptly down a side street. He can see her truck parked at the end of it. 

“I think we should call it a night,” she replies, which is no answer at all. 

“Brienne,” he says, grabbing her arm before she can step off of the sidewalk to get in the truck. “I didn't mean to pressure you.”

“You weren't pressuring me. I'm just...” She looks up at the sky, and the streetlamp washes dull yellow all over her broad face, like she's stepped into the wrong spotlight. “I'm not ready for you.” 

He cracks a small grin. “I didn't come unprepared,” he says, and her serious eyes turn darker with a low anger. He pivots back to match her mood. “It's just me. What is there to be ready for?”

“For everything that's about to happen.” 

Jaime goes still. “I'm not interested in forcing anything.” 

Brienne wraps her arms around herself, and it makes her look vulnerable in a way Jaime couldn't have imagined. “I don't mean tonight. I mean every day after that. You're not going to stay,” she tells him. Jaime frowns at her in confusion and she continues. “You're going to make your demo and then make it big, and this,” she gestures between them, “won't be enough.” 

“Brienne.” He wants to reach out to her, to soothe her with his hands, but he can already hear ice cracking under his feet, and he's not sure where to step next. “You're making an awful lot of assumptions here. But the worst is that you could never be enough for me.” 

“You've been there before, Jaime, you know what it's like. Better than I do. Don't tell me you're going to have time for this, once you're successful. And I'm not going to carry it alone. I'm not gonna be your burden.”

“You're worrying about something that may not even happen,” he protests. “It's just as likely I'll flop and go crawling back to my father's business. I'm not guaranteed success.”

“I have to assume you will, because when you do-” her voice cracks a little, and no matter how hard she works to keep her face composed, her eyes are shadowed with hurt. “I don't want to get left behind.” 

It's impossible to entirely disagree. If he does get signed to a label, if they send him to tour, what she's describing won't be completely wrong and they both know it. “Physically, yes, there will be some distance,” he admits. “But only while I'm on tour. Nothing else will change.” 

“Everything else will change,” she says softly. 

“It doesn't have to be for the worse. You're prophesying a lot of doom out of tea leaves right now.” He's trying to keep his voice even, but his jaw is clenched so tightly it aches a little. “You'd throw all this away before we even got started, because of something that might or might not happen? You'll kiss me, but not more?”

“I'm afraid you're going to break my heart,” she whispers, staring down at their feet. 

“That's not fair. There's at least a fifty percent chance you'll break mine instead,” he says. That's a lie: it's a ninety percent chance she'll break his first. Jaime isn't one to commit lightly, and for all he's only known Brienne a few months, he can't foresee a time when he won't want her to talk to, and argue with, and hold. Whether she'll put up with him that long in return, he's still not sure. “Brienne. Look at me.” She takes a breath and meets Jaime's urgent gaze. “Let's say I do get signed. If it's the touring that worries you, you could come with me.”

“You know I can't. You might be able to play at being Colt Thunder, but I'm always a bartender.”

The tension creeps across his shoulders, down his back. “I'm not playing at any of this. This is serious for me. This is my life, Brienne.”

“This is my life, too, and it's here.”

“The bar is here. Your life is wherever you want it to be.” 

She furrows her brow' it feels like a line he'll never be able to cross. But she wouldn't be Brienne without it. “I'm not going to abandon my father.”

Jaime shakes his head. “So you'll abandon your own wants instead?” he says sharply, and Brienne straightens, glorious in her roused anger. 

“I'm making a choice.”

“One you don't have to make. Not like this.” 

“I'm not the only one making a choice here,” she says, and that feels like a body blow. 

“I see,” Jaime says slowly. “So this is my fault, because I want something more?”

“No,” she says, her face stricken. “This is exactly what I mean.” Brienne squeezes her eyes shut and when she opens them again, they're glassy with sadness. “We shouldn't talk about this now. One of us is going to say something we'll regret, and I don't want that either.” 

“What _do_ you want?” he asks intently. 

It feels like he's balancing on a tightrope as he waits for her answer; it takes her long enough that he's sure he's gonna fall. 

“I want you to prove to me this can work between us,” she finally says in an aching voice. 

It's an absurd request; only a fool would agree to it. “I can. I will,” he promises. 

Brienne studies him for a second and then makes a pained sort of moan and leans forward, capturing his lips in a searing kiss. It's everything he wants, and she breaks it off before he's even close to sated. 

“I should go.” She nearly trips hurrying around the edge of her truck, but recovers and climbs in and the engine roars to life a moment later. Jaime knocks on the window hard in frustration, and she leans across to roll it down. He feels more lost than before they started this evening, like he's stumbled into a dark room and can't find the light. 

“I won't abandon you either,” he tells her. All he can give her are his promises. 

She presses her lips together, her chin wobbling. “I know you won't mean to,” she says. “Goodnight, Jaime.” 

He watches her drive away, and wonders what it will take to make her believe him.


	11. Can't get enough of you, I want too much of you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Running out of the bar in response wasn't her finest move. But she doesn't know how to handle any of it: the push and pull of what she wants and what she fears, what's real and what's just her anxious heart, her impossible demands and his ridiculous promises. It's unfair of her to make him shoulder the responsibility, and it's unreasonable that he thinks he can, but it doesn't stop either of them. They're both fools. 
> 
> She had been so sure she could keep this light between them, even as they moved with heavy steps closer and closer together. It's been weighted since before she knew anything about him; it gets worse with every word and caress and kiss. When she allows herself a moment of honesty, she knows she's at a fork in their relationship, and she's got to make a decision to end it or risk it all.

On Thursday, Brienne doesn't avoid Jaime, exactly. She answers his texts – she just keeps her responses restrained. Restraint is something she's misplaced since Jaime came sauntering into her life, and she needs to find it again quickly, for both of them. 

When she'd climbed off of the bull and found Jaime waiting for her, his erection heavy in his slacks, her own physical response had been immediate. He'd asked to take her home, and in an instant she'd spun the entire night out from that moment: discovering his house, the intimacy of his bed, Belle sleeping between them like they had a lifetime of domestic bliss ahead. Then the reality followed hard on its heels – him going on tour, the distance stretching between them until it was more obligation than desire, her left behind by choice and duty both, while she broke painfully apart. 

Running out of the bar in response wasn't her finest move. But she doesn't know how to handle any of it: the push and pull of what she wants and what she fears, what's real and what's just her anxious heart, her impossible demands and his ridiculous promises. It's unfair of her to make him shoulder the responsibility, and it's unreasonable that he thinks he can, but it doesn't stop either of them. They're both fools. 

She had been so sure she could keep this light between them, even as they moved with heavy steps closer and closer together. It's been weighted since before she knew anything about him; it gets worse with every word and caress and kiss. When she allows herself a moment of honesty, she knows she's at a fork in their relationship, and she's got to make a decision to end it or risk it all. 

It's hard to choose when the one she so desperately wants is the one that terrifies her the most. Either way, there's a reckoning coming and she's not sure she's ready for it. 

Jaime shows up nearly an hour earlier than usual that night, texting her from the parking lot. Brienne stares helplessly down at the phone when she sees it, and Jon coughs a little. 

“Need to go greet someone?” he asks slyly, and Brienne flushes. She hates how obvious she is in all her thoughts, but especially about Jaime. 

“Um, yeah. Do you mind?”

“Go ahead. It's slow still.” 

She shoots Jon a grateful smile and hurries to the back room and out through the side door, propping it open. Jaime's truck is parked nearby and he gets out as she approaches. He looks hesitant and she feels guilt on top of everything else. 

“Hi,” she says and he nods a little in greeting. She wishes she were braver, or less prone to feeling too much. 

Belle is standing in the driver's seat just over Jaime's shoulder, her tail wagging wildly. “Hey, girl,” Brienne tells her, and the dog shoves her face between them. 

“She missed you,” Jaime says. 

“Come on,” Brienne says. “Let's walk her around for a pee break and then get her settled.” 

Jaime holds Belle's leash with one hand and offers his other to Brienne. She tentatively takes it, and then holds on tight as they walk around the edge of the lot. It feels like a peace offering. 

“So you're not mad at me,” he says lightly, and Brienne looks over. He's watching Belle, who's discovered a few old cigarette butts. He lightly tugs her leash and she moves on. 

“Of course not,” Brienne says. “I thought you'd be mad at me.” 

“Frustrated,” he tells her. “Really frustrated. But not mad. I just wish...” His lips thin and he shakes his head. “Not mad,” he repeats. This time he meets her gaze when he says it, and she can see the truth. _You know me_ , he'd told her not that long ago. The depth of it is dizzying. 

They walk in silence for a bit, both keeping an eye on the cars pulling into the lot with increasing frequency. It feels like a tacit agreement to let everything else lie dormant for now. 

“The bar's doing better because of you,” Brienne tells him as they watch a huge raised pickup crawl around the gravel looking for a spot it'll fit. 

“You're the one who agreed to let me play.” 

“Take the compliment, Colt.”

“Take your own.” 

Brienne gives him an annoyed look. “Thank you.”

“Thank _you_ ,” he says, a hint of his usual smugness seeping out. 

“I'm going to talk to my dad about hiring a second bartender for Fridays and Saturdays.” She kicks at the gravel a little and they start back towards the building. “I was thinking... when you make it big and move on” – Jaime scoffs but she ignores it – “if there's an act that you could pick to replace you for the first few Fridays, someone with the Colt Thunder seal of approval, that should help keep our business up.” 

“Being the house band at Selwyn's sounds like a fine enough future to me.” 

“Jaime,” she sighs. But she doesn't want to poke at this sore spot again right now, for both of them. “When's the band showing up?” 

“I told them as near to seven as possible. I didn't want to give Jon a heart attack.” 

“Kind of you,” she says. “Though he strikes me more as an aneurysm type.” She holds the door open and Jaime leads Belle inside. 

They get Belle settled and when she's flopped lazily on her bed, gently squeaking her toy, they stare at each other. This unease between them is entirely new, like they've forgotten how to be together. 

“I need to get back out there,” Brienne says. “Jon's probably cursing me up, down, and sideways. Come out when you're ready. Your fans are waiting.” 

“I only care that you are,” he softly tells her, and she kisses him, finally. They're both gentle, but she can feel the tension he's carefully walling off, the way it presses up against her own hastily constructed barriers. When she leaves him there, it feels like she's cutting out in the middle of a conversation, even though they've spoken so little. 

It's busy tonight, and the band arrives a short while later which means Jon leaves her to juggle the crowd alone. It's a relief to have her thoughts filled with pouring drinks and taking money, greeting regulars and trying to be friendly to newcomers, rather than only Jaime. She's vaguely aware of him when he comes out of the back room, when he's mildly swarmed, when he's helping with sound check. His presence is like the sun on a cloudy day – a brightness that's always at the edge of her vision, even if he's not immediately visible. 

It scares her how much she finds herself turning towards his sunlight, like a greedy flower. It'll be so much darker when he's gone. 

The show starts with a different song, one Jaime hasn't played much before, and Brienne sees why when Sandor's drums silence the crowd's curious murmur as the lights dim. Margaery comes in hot on her fiddle, and then Ilyn lays in the steel guitar, and the song feels entirely new. The tension as the crowd waits for Jaime to take the stage is palpable. When he does, he's greeted with a rowdy cheer, and Brienne's stomach flips over at his reckless, astonished grin. 

Whatever he says about being a house band, she can only picture him running onstage in front of thousands of fans, not a couple hundred. 

The concert is raucous. Though they'd already been tight and electric in Nashville on Monday, the band seems closer this Friday, and they're loose here in the less constrained confines of Selwyn's. Brienne is proud of how her father's bar – _her_ bar – is fulfilling the dream she's been tending for it: finding talent out in the wild and giving them a space to grow into themselves. It's what Brienne has always wanted for Selwyn's, and Jaime is the glowing, physical manifestation. He seems unreal to her up there onstage, though she's had him in her arms. 

After the encore, the crush of people wanting to meet the band is impressive. They're not only interested in Jaime; Margaery is predictably surrounded right away, Goodwin goes to talk to Ilyn, and even Sandor stands there glowering at a couple of people brave enough to approach him. But Jaime certainly has the biggest group, and he takes the time to shake hands and talk, to take selfies and accept a few hugs from those he knows, like Catelyn, who gestures animatedly and makes him laugh. She's brought her husband, Ned, with her, and he comes over to the bar while Catelyn and Jaime talk. There's a high-pitched giggle behind him, and Brienne spots Ellaria laying her hand on Margaery's arm with surprising familiarity. 

“Ready to settle up?” Brienne asks Ned. He nods. “How'd you enjoy the show?”

“Cat forced me to come tonight, but it was worth it. He's good.” Ned signs the receipt, and Brienne sees he tips well and likes him better for it. “Think he'll be playing here much longer? It'd be nice to have Cat's Fridays back,” he adds wryly. 

Brienne watches Jaime lean near someone, listening intently, and then respond with a charming smile. 

“No, not much longer,” she says, so softly she's surprised Ned even hears her. 

But he looks relieved and shoves the receipt her way. “Thanks,” he tells her, before wandering back to Catelyn. 

It takes a while for the bar to clear out. Goodwin stops by on his way out the door to compliment the band and pat Brienne's shoulder, Ellaria has to be pulled from Margaery's side by Cat and Lyanna, and Lysa finally peels herself off of Sandor and heads out, too. Jon has pulled out chairs for the band to sit in, and he's quietly dealing with the lights while they talk. 

Jaime comes over to the bar and sits down, in a move so familiar it makes her heart ache. 

“Any notes, Barkeep?” he asks with a shamelessly flirty smile. He's retreated to habit, which should be comforting, but it all feels like an act in a way it never had before. Jaime is Colt again, all charming surface, and she hates it, especially since she knows she caused it. 

“Your entrance was grandstand-y.”

Jaime snorts and takes the whiskey she's automatically poured him. “People like theater.” 

“You're not doing theater, you're making music,” she snaps. 

He lifts an eyebrow, lowers his drink. “Did something happen in the last hour that I should be aware of?”

 _Just a reminder of all the things I'm going to lose_. “No,” she mutters. “I'm fine. Still can't take any criticism after all this time?” Brienne's tone is not as light as she wants, but she can see him decide to accept it rather than push her further. 

“Ostentatious,” he says. Brienne blinks at him, confused. “I would have said it was ostentatious, not 'grandstand-y.'”

“It's the same thing.”

“Yeah, but big words are sexier. The band wants to talk to you, come sit with us.” 

“I have to finish closing everything up. You go ahead.” 

Jaime's jaw twitches. He downs the whiskey and then leans across the bar, kissing her like he's trying to prove something. She kisses him back with the needy fear she's trying hard to smother, and when he pulls away the earnest light in his eyes is sobering. “I'm still right here,” he tells her, before he joins the others. 

Brienne tarries over her tasks, and she can feel Jaime staring at her as she does. Even Jon finishes up his work and joins the band while Brienne reviews the inventory for a third time. She's not good at pretending, and she doesn't want to fail at hiding all her conflicted desires in the middle of a group of strangers. 

Eventually, Margaery makes a big show of yawning and the group stands, gathering their things, murmuring quiet goodbyes to each other. When Jaime goes to the back room to get Belle, Brienne lowers her pad of paper. 

Margaery saunters over, her fiddle case tucked under her arm. “Brienne, right?” she says and Brienne nods. “You sure keep yourself busy.” 

“Lots to do,” Brienne says weakly. 

Margaery studies her for a moment. “How long have you and Colt been together?” 

Her question is not at all like the two pretty women from the line-dancing bar months before. There's no threat underlying it; it's presented as pure, simple curiosity. Maybe a little concern, which Brienne suspects is for Jaime. Brienne feels her face heat. 

“Not too long,” she stammers. “Officially just a few days.” 

“'Officially'? That sounds like a story.”

The click of Belle's toenails announces Jaime's return and Brienne just shrugs a little at Margaery. “I guess a little,” she says as Jaime walks up, glancing between the two of them. 

Even though Margaery is beautiful, even though she made music with him tonight and didn't try to push him away, Jaime still gives all his attention to Brienne first, and her heart pounds harder under the banked desire in his eyes. “Everyone's heading out for the night,” he says. “I can wait.” 

Brienne knows what that means, the conversation they will have to have if he does. Her heart is pressed too hard against her chest; there'll be no pulling it back if they take the next step. There will be no protecting it from slipping out between her ribs if they don't. It's a choice, and she's not ready to make it. 

“No, I'm good,” she hears herself say. As if not choosing isn't also a choice. 

She can see the argument jumping under Jaime's skin, the way his whole body tightens. But he simply nods and bids her good night, before leading Belle outside. Jon and the band follow, waving goodbye to Brienne, though Margaery only gives her a quizzical look. 

When the door closes behind them, Brienne exhales loud and shaky in the now-empty bar. It isn't fair to hold on to Jaime while keeping him at a distance. He's been a bull crashing through every fence she's hastily erected, single-minded and powerful, and she should set him free if she's not going to make him hers. But she can't bear to let him go, either. He's going to leave, and still she's too trapped by her own heart to just get it over with. She's not ready for him to take his music out of her life. 

Through the darkened windows she sees the glow of red lights as everyone pulls out of the lot, until Brienne is alone. Usually she feels comfortable by herself in this space; she waits for it every night after Jon leaves. It's her time to wander and check in on the peeling paint to make sure it hasn't gone too far; do a scan of the bathroom stalls to discover what new, absurd phrase has been added to the graffiti they'd decided to leave years ago. They cover over anything violent and rude, but the history of the bar is written on those walls in its own way. Just like it is in the small crack in the front window and the mismatched lights in the rafters and the slightly different-sized glasses they use for drinks. These pieces make up the song of her life, told to her by her family or learned herself. 

Tonight, though, it all feels like an unfinished arrangement. The walls are a half-step too broken, the mirror behind the bar a little too weathered, the floor under her feet creaking too loud in the silence. Tonight she has something to want – something to miss – that's not only the bar, and he's much louder than well-worn memories. Sending him away has only delayed the inevitable. She will have to listen to the shouting of her heart sooner or later. 

Which is why when the door opens again and Jaime strides back in alone, slamming it shut behind him so hard the old frame rattles, the sound of it washes through her, and instead of flinching, she rises to meet him. They stop a foot apart in the middle of the empty floor. Jaime's energy lassos her, but she doesn't let him pull her in. 

“I thought you were going,” she tells him. His lips press together so hard they go white. 

“That seems to be all you think about me.” 

She breathes out slowly. “I'm not an idealist, Jaime. I have to be practical.” 

“You really believe that? When you've spent all this time telling me I can make my own way? Or is it that you're too scared to have dreams for yourself?” 

“I have dreams,” she says, her words a whip-crack. 

“Any that don't include the bar?” he asks, and it's almost a sneer. She plants her hands on her hips. 

“Did you just come back in here to shit on what matters to me?”

“I'm not--” Jaime huffs loudly, tugging his hat. “I've been thinking about what you asked of me the other night, to prove that we can make this work.” 

Brienne grimaces. “I shouldn't have,” she admits. “No one can do that.”

“You can.” The words fall like two plucked notes, echoing in the room. It's only part of the melody, but he looks frustrated that she's not grasping it. “I've been throwing myself at you for weeks when you've always been a step away. Do you really think I'm not going to keep fighting for us when you're by my side?”

A flush builds like a low fire in her chest. “Jaime--” 

“I wake up every morning and wish you were there.” His desperate voice scrapes against her body. “I go to bed wishing the same thing. I want it more when I don't see you, not less. You think I'm going to walk away from this if I get famous, or that distance is going to do anything but make me miss you more? You're asking me to prove that I won't leave you crying and alone. But I could ask the same thing of you.” 

“Me?” Brienne almost laughs, the idea is so absurd. “I'm not going anywhere. I'm always gonna be right here.” 

“Is it so impossible some other man will walk into this bar and see you and wonder where the hell you've been all his life?” 

She swallows and looks away; his eyes are burning too bright to meet. “It hasn't happened so far,” she says softly, and Jaime makes a dark, dismayed noise in his chest, the low rumble of a bass drum. 

“How do you not see that it has?” he asks softly. When she's unable to respond, he shakes his head sharply. “The only way to prove this is gonna work between us is by doing it. I want to. I will. But I can't prove anything without you. So I'm going to make this easy on you, Brienne, with no guilt or shame.” He straightens, his chin lifting. “I'll walk out this door right now and never come back, if you tell me that's what you want. But it has to be you that chooses it, because if I stay, I won't leave first. Not now, not ever.” 

“You don't know that.”

“Don't tell me what I do or don't know,” he says between clenched teeth. “I know that you're a stubborn, blunt, aggravating woman who's trying hard to ignore her heart. I know that you love this bar, even if I don't fully understand your devotion to it. I know that I think about you every damn day, and I have since long before we even kissed. I know that I have feelings for you that I don't know how to name, and I want to see where they go, because whatever this is between us might be something amazing, but frankly it scares the shit out of me when you're still not sure you like me enough to even try.” 

Brienne swallows hard. She feels unmoored and tingling, jolted awake, her last protective wall crumbling down. She wants to laugh and she wants to yell and she wants to smother him silent with her mouth. “I like you,” she says, though it's not enough and she knows it. 

Jaime rubs his hands down his face and then holds them out plaintively. “That's a start. But it's not enough. I can't go on like this, you with one foot out the door, not willing to believe in me as much as I believe in you. I can't do this by myself. So what's it gonna be, Brienne?” he asks, and all his intensity is quiet now, the echoing reverb of silence at the end of a song. 

“You're always so certain,” she says, her voice ragged. “Even when you shouldn't be. Say we do this, and it all falls apart anyway. It'll hurt like hell.”

“It would,” he agrees. “And if that happened and you took me back to this moment and asked if I'd do this again or I'd just walk away, I'd do it just the same.”

“Why?” Brienne knows she wouldn't have made the same choices with her only other serious boyfriend, who'd gotten bored of her and her small dreams and left her here, too. And she had never felt for him what she already feels for Jaime. 

Jaime gives her a small, tender smile. “Because it's worth it. You're worth it.” 

“How can you know that?” It's impossible to do more than whisper, the air is so thick with all the possibility of hope and despair that lies before them. 

Jaime relaxes, the tense and jagged lines of his body smoothing as he gently reaches up and cups her face. “I look at you,” he says, as confident as she's ever seen him. “That's how I know.” 

A note long and loud and pure sounds inside her, shaking loose the reins of restraint that she's tried so hard to hold onto. Free of them, she realizes that she doesn't want to grab them back. Brienne loves the bar, but she doesn’t want just this and never something for herself. Even when this has the potential to bring her so low. She looks at Jaime, at his gentle eyes and his sharp mouth and all the lines and angles in between. _I know him_ , she thinks. She's known him since he sat at her bar that first night. He's come back over and over, as reliable as the tide. It's not that she doesn't want him to go and do what he's dreamed, it's that she wants him to come back. And that's all Jaime has ever done. 

“Jaime, I'm so scared,” she whispers, honest to the last. 

His fingers tighten ever-so-slightly against her skin. “God, Brienne. So am I.” 

Of all the things he could have said, it's that which calms her, the shared weight of his fears making her own easier to bear. 

“I want this. I want you,” she says, reaching out to him. She doesn't get a chance to say more, because he pulls her in to kiss her, and she can taste the relief in the devouring heat of his mouth. 

“Fuck,” he breathes in between the press of their lips. “I thought you were gonna make me go.”

“I almost did.” The idea of it shudders unpleasantly through her; he could have been gone already and this time he wouldn't have ever come back. She presses her forehead to his. “Come home with me.” She's the one pleading now. 

He leans a little away to look at her, and the hope and desire on his face are tethered by the caution in his eyes. “I want to,” he says. “I want to kiss you slowly in your truck, and I want to fuck you slowly in your bed, and I want to wake you up with my mouth and do it all over again. But I don't want to rush you, if you're not ready. This is enough.”

Words have never been her forte; she can't string together a lyric to save her life. But she knows her body, and she knows her heart now, and she kisses him deep in answer, hoping he can hear her singing for him. 

This time when he pulls away, all the caution is gone. 

“All right,” he says, his lips red and wet. “Take me home with you.”

* * *

Jaime's not aware of much on the way to Brienne's truck except the way her legs look in their rush, or the flaring heat in her eyes as she keeps glancing over at him with an almost disbelieving smile. He's been wanting this for so long, he's in as much shock as she is that it's finally here. 

When they get to her truck, he decides to remove any last doubt for both of them, and he tucks her up against the door and kisses her hard. It's sloppy in his eagerness, but she still moans when he trails his hands to the edge of her shirt and then runs them up under it and along her trembling stomach. 

“Can we at least get in the truck?” she gasps into his mouth and he's still got enough willpower to let her shirt fall back down. 

“I don't want our first time to be in your truck,” he murmurs into her neck. Brienne shudders a little, her hands tight on his hips. Jaime's kept a slight distance, because his cock is already aching and it's torturous enough just being near her right now; he can't take being crushed against her. 

“Okay,” she says, but she keeps kissing his face, her mouth hot and wet along his jaw and his chin and he has to take a full step back. That doesn't help much – her cheeks are pink and her lips are red and her pupils are so wide there's not much blue left in her eyes, but what he can see is a maelstrom. 

“Oh, fuck it,” he sighs helplessly, and he moves in again but she plants one wide palm on his chest. The strength in her hand and taut forearm does nothing to quell his desire. 

“You're right,” she tells him. “We don't want to do this here. Go around the other side and I'll let you in.” 

Jaime tugs at his jeans to re-settle himself and then does as she's bid, but he keeps his eyes on hers the entire way, until they're staring at each other through the side windows. He grins at her, slowly, and she looks more embarrassed by that than anything else he's done so far. 

“Wait,” she gasps, and his heart stops, uncertain of what misstep he's taken. “Belle!”

He laughs on a relieved exhale. “She's with Jon. He's got a dog, so he said he was happy to take her, too.” 

“Oh,” she says in a strangled voice, and though it's too dark to see from here, Jaime is certain she's blushing. “You were so sure that would work?”

“No. I was assuming I'd need to go get drunk somewhere and I didn't want to worry about her.” She doesn't laugh, which he appreciates, because he wasn't joking. 

They climb in the truck and Brienne drives them into the night. Jaime's debating about where to touch her first, in all the great expanse of her body that's soon to be his to explore, when she reaches over and takes his hand. 

It's tender, her fingers interlinking with his, and Jaime suddenly can't breathe, like she's got his lungs in her grip. He brings her hand to his lips and kisses the back of it and he tries not to think about what would have happened if he'd just gone home instead. 

Brienne's place is even further from Nashville than the bar. They drive through low rises and clusters of trees, the moon a bright ball in the night sky. The roads are fairly empty; at points it feels like they're alone in the world, and Jaime thinks he'd be just fine with that: him and Brienne and no one else on earth. 

“You ever think of moving closer to the city?” he asks. 

“Not for a few years,” she says. 

“The bar?”

Brienne nods, her eyes flickering over to him and then back to the road. 

“You ever think of moving out of Nashville?” she asks in return, and Jaime looks up at the sky, the thousands of stars he can't see from the city, the one burning bright in the seat next to him, and he shrugs a little. 

“Not until now,” he says, hoping that's vague enough. 

Brienne gives him a quick, curious glance, and the truck speeds up. 

Jaime rests his hand on her shoulder, rubs his thumb along the line of muscle where it meets bone, keeping his hand on top of her shirt, so he doesn't lose his entire mind before they even get there. It doesn't help much when he digs in a little and she bites her lip and makes a soft, pleased hum in her throat. Just as he's about ready to make an 'are we there yet' comment he's sure to regret, they drive down a quiet street and the truck rumbles over uneven ground to park in front of a small, dark house. They sit for a moment in the silence. 

“Well, we're here,” Brienne says, fiddling with her keys in her lap and staring out the front windshield. 

“Thank god,” Jaime says. He undoes his seatbelt and slides across the bench seat to tug aside the fabric and kiss her shoulder, her neck, nip at her ear with his teeth like he'd wanted to do weeks ago. His cock hardens again as soon as he's near her. “Now, are you gonna take me inside that quaint little house, or am I gonna have to scandalize your neighbors?” 

Brienne laughs a little. “I think you'd like what that did for your reputation, but I want you inside,” she tells him in a throaty drawl that ratchets up Jaime's banked urgency. 

“Then get out of the damn truck,” he says and she giggles, a high, bubbly, entirely unexpected sound that floors him and leaves him sitting there even when she's on her feet with the door open. 

“Are you coming or what?” she asks and Jaime scrambles out after her, banging his knee on the steering wheel column on his way out and cursing low. 

He kisses her again as soon as they're both on equal footing and this time he pulls her tight against his body, groaning in relief and agony when his cock presses against her inner thigh. Jaime's got his hands cupped around the back of her head and he's slowly undoing her braid as she melts into his kisses. Her hair feels like silky feathers between his fingers, just like he's imagined it so many times. 

“Inside,” she whispers, taking a step backward and dragging him by the shirt collar. He's never been so happy to be led in his life, and they stumble and breathlessly laugh their way across the grassy drive up a short flight of steps. Jaime's vaguely aware of her porch – there are two chairs on it, and some potted flowers, and the wood creaks under his feet – but he cares more about how her waist feels under his hands, how her ass fits against his pelvis when he presses against her as she struggles with the lock. 

He slips one arm around her stomach and pulls her into him, rocking his hips and earning himself a very guttural whimper to match his own. “Need help with that, darlin'?” he breathes as he kisses the top edge of her shoulder. 

“If you really wanted to help, you'd stop distracting me.” 

“You need a porch light,” he tells her and she makes a grunt of agreement before the door swings open. It's dark in the house, though he thinks he can make out the shadow of a couch. 

“Finally,” she says, and then turns in his arms, kisses him defenseless, and bodily moves him towards the door by the lapels of his shirt. They fight and tug their way inside, she slams the door shut behind them with her foot and he pushes her back against it, their mouths and hands all over each other. 

Jaime had decided somewhere between the bar and here that he would take his time, but she's undoing the buttons of his shirt, yanking his belt open, pressing her knee between his legs and the pressure just of her thigh against his cock and balls is enough to have him ravenous for more. 

“Here?” he asks even as he lifts her shirt up. He discovers the skin all along her ribcage is soft and heated when he palms it, slides further up and learns she's not even wearing a bra. “Shit,” he groans, bending his head and mouthing her nipples through the thin cotton of her tank-top. 

“We drove all this way,” she gasps above him, whining a little when he pulls away to tug her top down and uncover her small breasts. “I'd hate to-- _ah_ ,” she cries out as he puts his mouth back where it had been and sucks. Her nipples are peaked and stiff against his tongue and it makes him want to put his mouth lower, too, to draw the tension out of her at every soft place on her body. “Bedroom,” she manages and Jaime nods with her breast still in his mouth and her fingers curled in his hair. 

Those fingers tug his head away and he lets go reluctantly, but it's worth it to let her lead him by the hand back through a short hallway, to a room with an open window that looks out on a moonlit grassy yard. It's a warm night and the crickets are numerous – enough to count the temperature by – but none of that is as loud as Brienne's breathing when she hesitates just inside her bedroom. There's a good-sized bed taking up most of the space, and a dresser with indeterminate knick-knacks along the top, but Jaime's not here for the guided tour; that's for the morning, he hopes, so he pulls her into his arms and kisses her.

He means for it to be sweet, and it starts that way until her tongue darts out to find his and then they're frantic again. He lost his hat somewhere back in the front room and his shirt is almost entirely unbuttoned now from her dextrous hands. Jaime slides her flannel top off of her shoulders and lets it drop to the floor, draws her tank-top up over her head and tosses it into a corner, and the pale skin of her chest is ghostly in the moonlight; he brushes his fingers along the top of her breasts to assure himself she's real. 

“Jaime,” Brienne says on a soft sigh, and that one quiet word is enough to crash through whatever last resolve he has to take it slow as he swarms into her, kissing her down onto her bed. Their hands are at each other's waistbands. He tugs her jeans open and down to her ankles with her underwear, and she manages to pull his pants down over his ass just as he slides his fingers to where she's already wet for him. Brienne makes the most divinely needy cry when he circles her clit, spreads her open wide, and then presses his thumb at the entrance to her cunt. She bucks up into his palm and he kisses the flushed plain of her chest, licks the low valley between her breasts, noses the small dip of her belly button and she jerks a little. 

_Ticklish_ , he thinks, tucking that away for later. The promise of many laters settles like a pleasant hum in the back of his mind. Right now he's got his chin on her pubic bone and he's stroking his fingers through the slick folds of her cunt as she shifts and tenses under him, a song just about to kick off. He's been waiting to play this one, and he mouths down through the unevenly trimmed hair to lay his tongue flat against her and listen to the sounds she makes. They're beautiful: desperate little cries as he licks in smooth lines, a gasp when he sucks briefly at her clit, and then a low-pitched bass-line of a moan when he thrusts first his tongue and then his finger inside her. 

Her fingernails scratch down his head and Jaime's back arches eagerly. He wants to hear all of her, but he'll start here for now, adding a second finger, then a third, like building a chord, stroking the walls of her cunt until she's gripping him tight and her feet are braced on his thighs and she's letting go with a perfectly pitched wail. 

Jaime works her through it until she flaps at his head and wrist and he stills, his fingers inside her, his mouth and chin soaked by her. Brienne lifts her head a little to look at him down her torso. Her eyes are so wide, a whirlpool pulling him in. 

“Come up here,” she says, and he slips his fingers out of her while she trembles. 

“Hold on,” he tells her. He pulls her boots and clothes off, then gets rid of the rest of his clothes, too, while she lies there panting and sweaty, her hair a mess, her body taking up half the bed and all the more magnificent for it. His dreams had nothing on the reality of her: the freckles in clumps and scattered lines, the way her skin has turned rosy as a spring flower, the strength of her muscles and softness of her heart all laid bare for him. Jaime swallows hard. “Do you have a condom?” 

“You didn't bring one?” she asks, arching her eyebrows, and he gives her a lopsided grin. 

“I didn't want to seem presumptuous,” he says and she snorts inelegantly. “But yes, I have one.” 

“Good, because mine are all old.” 

Jaime doesn't want to be That Guy – he truly doesn't give a shit how many people she's slept with – but it fills him with a deep pleasure that he hasn't been the only one alone for so many nights before this, as though she might have been waiting for him. 

God knows he feels like he's been waiting for her. 

Brienne lightly rubs her foot along the back of his knee and up around to his thigh as he gets the condom and puts it on. Her face is red and her teeth are white when she grins mischievously up at him from the bed. He grabs her toes before they can journey any further, and when he kneels on the mattress, he keeps her leg thrown over his shoulder, rubs his hands up her calves, down the ridiculously long line of her thighs, using the same careful movements he uses on his guitar. She feels as smooth and firm as his guitar, and sounds as rich when he gently pushes the blunt head of his cock into her. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You feel--” it ends in a groan when she rolls her hips to take more of him in, that same movement she'd used riding the mechanical bull the other night, something he's sure he'll never forget. 

They're joined together and still too far apart. He lets her leg slide down to circle his waist as he bends over her, kissing her nose, her eyelids, licking the salt along the curve of her jaw as he thrusts slowly, his cock heavy and aching for release. 

“Please,” she murmurs, squeezing him with her thighs until his hips ache. “Jaime, please, I want--” She bites her lip and falls into silence when he drives deeper. 

“What, Brienne?” Jaime whispers into her ear. He can feel every twitch and clench of her body, every place she's holding him tightly to her, like she'll never let him go. There's no friction where he's stroking in and out of her cunt, his cock coated with her, and he can feel pressure building in his spine, the frantic need clawing free from where he's been trying to hold it back. He wants to let go, but he wants to hear and feel and smell her, wants to watch the way her eyelashes, pale wisps like her undone braid, flutter closed when he changes to shallow jerks. She makes a keening plea in the back of her throat that nearly undoes him. He finds words from somewhere that isn't yet already gone: “What do you want?” 

“Harder,” she begs. “More.” She's scratching at his back, long trails that leave him shuddering. “I want you.” 

“I've wanted you for weeks,” he confesses. He pushes up onto his elbows and looks down, pulls out of her and she cants her hips up trying to follow, her eyes flashing. The image of her riding that bull overwhelms him and he's nearly begging when he says, “I want you on top of me.” 

Jaime rolls onto his back and Brienne follows without a word, draping her leg over his hips with ease, sliding down onto his cock so smoothly his eyes roll back in pleasure. Her palms press hard into his shoulders, fingers curving into his skin, and when she moves her body in a languid curl, Jaime grips her ass firmly. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, his head pressed back into the mattress. It's better than he'd imagined it: Brienne straddling him, controlling Jaime with her knees dug into his waist. Her small breasts are rosy-tipped and shift a little with every movement. He'd take them in his hands if he weren't holding onto her to try to draw this out, even as he feels himself hurtling fast towards the edge. 

“Think you can last sixty seconds, cowboy?” she says, and he laughs a little, wild and out-of-control, thrusting his hips up hard and making her gasp. 

“I may not make eight,” he manages, and he pounds in deep as she holds on. They move in a fierce harmony, his fingers working at her clit as Brienne rides him. Being with her, having her hands on his body and his hands on hers, the greedy noises she's making, they're an orchestra that overwhelms him. When she arches her head back and goes rigid, clutching him tightly, her thighs squeezing the breath out of him, his orgasm sings through him a moment later and he gasps out her name towards the ceiling. 

Jaime jolts and quivers as the last notes fades away, as Brienne smoothes her curved hands flat and rubs her palms over his ribs and then lays her chest down on his. They're both sweaty and breathing hard and she's solid on top of him, where he's wanted her for so long. Her arms sneak under his body to hold him tight. 

He trails his fingers down her side. The freckles get fainter further down her torso, but they're all over her upper arms and shoulders, and he saw plenty circling her breasts. He kisses the freckles he can reach in clusters, until she takes a slow, deep breath. 

“I need to go to the bathroom,” she says, sounding regretful. 

His cock has slipped entirely out of her but the rest of him is perfectly happy where she's at, her head nestled into the curve of his neck, her fingers twirling in the hair at the nape. 

“If you need to,” he sighs. Brienne untwines her arms and pushes herself up, which puts her breasts within easy reach. Jaime lifts up to swipe his tongue across her nipple and she presses him back into the bed with a strong hand. 

“Are you trying to distract me?” she asks. 

“It's not a distraction,” he promises. “Just straight-up desire.” 

It's fascinating to watch her sex-flush deepen and spread tendrils further out across her chest. He presses his lips to a patch and tastes the warmth there. 

“Jaime,” she whimpers. He can taste her pulse on his tongue. “Bathroom first.” 

“I ain't stopping you,” he protests. Brienne runs her fingers through his hair and he leans into the casual intimacy of it, his heart leaning right along with the rest of him. 

Brienne's belly jumps against his when she chuckles a little. “You look like a big cat,” she says. 

“The Lannister logo _is_ a lion.” 

“I was thinking more of a pussycat,” she says. 

Jaime leans back and smirks. “Well--” he starts, but she smacks him lightly with a huff before rolling off of the bed. 

“I retract my statement,” she says as she grabs a t-shirt off of a small trunk. 

“Don't get dressed on my account,” he says, pillowing his head on his arms to watch her. The dappled moonlight and shadows make her body look like a half-drawn map, one Jaime wants to spend all night discovering the edges of. Brienne holds her shirt against her body, stares down at it, then at him, and bites her lip. _Still so shy_ , he thinks. She rides mechanical bulls and she throws drunks out of her bar and she fucks with a wanton freedom, but she's still uncomfortable being naked in front of him.

Brienne pulls the shirt on with an apologetic smile and Jaime just nods at her. He doesn't care whether she wears the shirt or not. The way it brushes the tops of her thighs just makes her look sexier, especially when he can make out half of the round curve of her ass when she walks out of the bedroom.

He takes care of the condom while she's gone, and is nearly half-asleep by the time she comes back. The bed dips when she sits on the edge. There's something in the concave curve of her body that instantly wakes him. 

“Hey,” he says softly. “You all right?” 

“Are you... can you stay?” 

Jaime pulls her down into his arms, and she settles curled up at his side with her head on his chest, her hand over his heart. 

“Yes,” he tells her, kissing the top of her head. “I'll stay as long as you want.” 

She exhales slowly, and he can feel the last of her tension drain away. He's aware of the chasm Brienne crossed to be with him; he hopes she believes now he'll be waiting on this side for her no matter what it is that's keeping them apart. Jaime rubs his hand down her back until she's breathing steadily, and he falls asleep to its soothing lullaby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be going back to weekly posting from here on out. I wanted to get to this point before the US elections hit this Tuesday. As soon as I build up enough buffer again, I'll return to twice a week but I'm not sure when that will be. Thanks for your patience. :)


	12. Tangled up with you and tryin' to catch my breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Any regrets yet?” Jaime asks, his tone is joking but it's impossible to miss the serious currents hovering below. 
> 
> She turns her head to meet his gaze in the dark. If she'd sent him home, she wouldn't know how warm he is in the night, the way it feels when he rests his palm on her stomach as a point of connection. She'd be filled with regret as she imagined it, though the idea wouldn't have come close to the reality. “Not one,” she tells him, and his eyes soften with relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't seen [these drawings by ayofandomthings of the two-step kiss scene, the line-dancing, and Jaime in his Colt Thunder shirt from the first Tuesday](https://ayofandomthings.tumblr.com/post/633813189562433536/sketches-from-twitter-plus-one-that-i-just-found), boy are YOU in for a treat. Jaime's shocked face after the kiss lives in my head rent-free now. I am so grateful and overwhelmed and amazed by this fanart!!
> 
> Also thank you to forbiddenfantasies for the moodboard for this chapter. It gives you a good idea of what to expect going in. 
> 
> Finally: this chapter could have been a feeble attempt at comfort for the US election results, and I am so grateful to be posting it as a celebration instead.

Brienne wakes up in the middle of the night, alone in her bed. She hears a noise as she lies there staring out her still-open window. Outside is quiet; even the crickets have gone to sleep. Someone's shuffling around in the house. There's a thud, a soft curse. 

“Jaime?” she asks. 

“Here,” his voice floats from the hallway. He appears a moment later in her doorway, completely naked. “Trying to find your bathroom in the dark.”

“End of the hall on your right.” 

“I went left. I'll be right back.” She can see the flashing white of his smile before he disappears again, hears his feet padding in slow steps, and then the bathroom door closing. 

There's a slight ache between Brienne's thighs; no pain, just the feeling of being well-fucked, and her face heats just thinking about it. In reality, not much has changed beyond this. Jaime's still going to chase his dream, she's still going to tend hers here. But he'd come back tonight when he hadn't needed to, when it would have been easier on both of them to stay away. He'd put his heart out there first. It means something, and she may not be as brave with her own heart as she wants, but she can take this risk when he's right there taking it with her. Maybe this time it means as much to the other person as it does to her. 

Now here she is: listening to the flush of the toilet, the running sink, the door opening, waiting for him to come back to her bed. The vine-like tendrils of care that she's been ruthlessly yanking out curl and burrow in. She leaves them there to take root this time, and wonders how deep they'll grow. 

Jaime returns, and when he passes by the window, the moonlight highlights every last muscle as he gracefully climbs back in next to her. But it's his gentle smile that sets her heart fluttering. Just like his tender songs are all the more breathtaking because they're so unexpected, the way he's looking at her like she's a wonder is making Brienne's steady foundation shake. The more he treats her like she's precious, the more fragile she feels. He tugs her expensive comforter up to their shoulders, cocooning them in. He's lying on his side, facing her on her back, and he kisses her cheek. 

“Any regrets yet?” Jaime asks, his tone is joking but it's impossible to miss the serious currents hovering below. 

She turns her head to meet his gaze in the dark. If she'd sent him home, she wouldn't know how warm he is in the night, the way it feels when he rests his palm on her stomach as a point of connection. She'd be filled with regret as she imagined it, though the idea wouldn't have come close to the reality. “Not one,” she tells him, and his eyes soften with relief.

“You have nice sheets,” Jaime says, and she laughs a little. He makes her laugh more than anyone she's ever met. 

“It's my one area of indulgence,” she admits. “I don't like to sleep on cheap cotton.” 

“I like this discovery,” he says, his mouth moving across her jaw. “What else can I learn about you tonight, Brienne?” 

“I don't know,” she breathes. It's hard to focus on anything but his lips pressing small, sucking kisses into her neck. “That I snore?”

“You don't. At least not yet. Clearly I haven't exhausted you enough.”

She tangles her hands in his hair as he moves down her body. Brienne lets him take his time this time. He seems intent on learning what she tastes like on every inch of her skin; about what kinds of noises she makes, first seduced by his fingers and then with his tongue. When he hovers over her and slides inside her again – wearing one of her condoms this time – she discovers he can be patient to the point of destruction. 

Brienne sighs his name as she comes the first time, and then cries it when he works her through a second, before he swells and shudders and comes undone on top of her. He starts to pull out and away but she tightens her arms around him and holds him close, and he sinks down with a happy hum. The weight of him soothes her, and it's easier to nuzzle into the side of his head and believe he's going to stay when he's pressing her down into the mattress. 

After taking care of the condom again – and if this keeps up, she thinks it's worth it to take precautions that will make condoms unnecessary – Jaime falls asleep quickly, still half-on her chest. His hair tickles her nose, and she discovers that _he_ snores. When he shifts off of her and onto his side in the early morning, he keeps his arm tight around her waist, his nose pressed into her shoulder. Even in sleep he keeps his promises. Maybe it's not so impossible to think she might get this dream, too. She fits in the circle of his arm, like it was shaped to hold her just like this. Brienne holds on to Jaime in return, and she drifts asleep again.

* * *

When she wakes the second time, Jaime is still in bed with her, and he's awake again, head propped up on one hand, his eyes glinting in the sunlight. 

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he says when she blinks and looks at him. He kisses her sweetly and then pats her hip. “I was going to make coffee but I wasn't sure where you kept it.”

“Oh,” she says. “What time is it?”

“Half past ten.”

“Jesus.” Brienne sits up, and Jaime stays sprawled out, watching her. His gaze travels down her bare chest and then back up again. “You should have woken me up,” she tells him before he can distract them both. “I could have made some. Or driven you back to the bar.” 

“I'd rather we take our time. A little before-breakfast snack, then a shower, then maybe lunch somewhere.” 

Jaime has always been quick to say that he wants to do things with her. It's taken her this long to believe it's because he just likes _being_ with her. 

“All right,” she says, and forces herself to relax. “Let me start some coffee and then we can see about that snack.” 

He grins and cups her head, pulling her down and tugging at her lip with eager teeth. “Hurry up,” he whispers. “I'm starving.” 

Brienne slips out of his grip, grabs her robe, and heads to the bathroom. She catches sight of herself in the mirror and is struck for a moment by how _happy_ she looks. She can't remember the last time she looked like this. It's like running into a forgotten friend. 

After she's done, she pokes her head back in the bedroom to ask Jaime about his coffee preferences and finds him still naked and idly looking at the photographs and little bits of memorabilia on her dresser. 

“You have paper in here?” he asks, glancing over, entirely unconcerned about both his nudity and curiosity. “And a pen? I had a brainstorm on some lyrics and I don't think as well on my phone.” 

“Bedside drawer,” she says, and it's only as he walks over and pulls the drawer open – as she hears the rumbling roll and slight thunk of the drawer contents – that Brienne remembers what else is in that drawer. She leaps from the doorway, but she's already too late, and Jaime picks up her vibrator with a wicked grin. 

“Is this one of those novelty pens?” he asks, waggling it at her. 

“Oh my god,” she says, swiping for it, but he yanks it back out of her reach. 

“Didn't your mama teach you to share with your guests? Where's your southern hospitality?”

“I'm gonna put you in a southern hospital if you don't give me that.” 

Jaime arches his eyebrows suggestively, and she goes hot and slick all at once. “Is that what you want? For me to give this to you?” 

“Do you even know how to use that thing?” she says, aiming for casual, but her own breathy voice betrays her interest. 

“Take off your robe and sit down, Brienne,” he murmurs. “I'll show you.” 

“I was gonna get us coffee,” she protests even as she does exactly that, the robe crumpled at her feet when she sits on the edge of the bed.

“Coffee can wait.” He rubs his palm along the vibrator in a potently obscene gesture. His own cock is hardening before her eager gaze. “I hope you thought about me while using this.” 

She has, many times, in the last few months. Brienne lifts her chin and gives him the answer and a challenge with her eyes, and he chuckles, low and pleased. 

“Good,” he says. “I like having a goal to work towards.” He examines the vibrator a moment, and then presses a button and it buzzes to life in his hand. It had never seemed all that loud when she was alone with it, but with Jaime here it echoes obnoxiously. Whatever lingering embarrassment she might have is swiftly brushed away when Jaime uses his knee to spread her legs and he touches the vibrator to the inside of her thighs one at a time. 

Brienne leans back on her hands and tries to control the desire rushing through her from where he's rolling the vibrator along the tender skin of her abdomen, then lower, near the lips of her vulva, and then away again. He gets down on one knee, his brow furrowed in concentration as he slides it down her leg. 

“It's not a massager,” she manages, and his shoulders shake a little with his amusement. 

“Then maybe you're not getting your money's worth,” he tells her. “Lie down.” 

“You're very bossy this morning,” she tells him even though they both know she's going to do it. He's grinning at her from between her thighs, his fingers are light but firm on her knee as he keeps her from clenching her legs together. His hair is brushing his shoulders and his eyes are green beacons and he moves the vibrator to her clit and she falls backward onto the bed in surrender. 

It's getting easier, now, to give in to Jaime; to accept and embrace all the things she wants from him in return. For the moment she wants just this: his calloused palm rubbing along her leg, his other hand directing her vibrator along and around and then into her. Brienne marvels for a moment that she doesn't need the lube at all before he presses the button again to increase the speed and when his mouth covers her clit she comes shockingly fast, her own desire choked and gasping in her chest. 

Once she stops whimpering, Jaime turns off the vibrator and slowly slides it out of her with a noise she might have been ashamed of if she weren't so hazy and floating. If it weren't him with her. 

“How's that compare?” he asks, his voice rough, and she startles herself with her hoarse laughter. 

“Are you feeling threatened by a sex toy?” she asks the ceiling, and then he climbs on the bed, hovering over her, and his stiff cock brushes against her belly. His hands are on either side of her head, holding himself up. Jaime's at his most beautiful here in the sunlight, his face open and wanting, sharp-edged and still kind. _Something amazing_ , she thinks, and she surges up to kiss him, slipping one hand between their bodies and gripping his cock tight. There's moisture at the slit already, and when she rubs her thumb over it, down the length of him, Jaime makes a guttural, plaintive growl and thrusts into her hand. 

He doesn't last long with her hand stroking him, before he's coming in short pulses over her wrist and stomach, his nose buried in her hair, breathing like a bellows. 

When he's done, he flops onto his back next to her, and takes her messy hand in his, cradling it on his chest. “Next time you can use it on me,” he says, and _oh_ the idea of it tingles through her. She can feel his pulse pounding hard. 

He turns his head to look at her, and his smile looks like home.

* * *

They eventually get out of her house, after coffee and separate showers and whatever scribbled notes he makes on the piece of paper he tucks into his pocket. It's for the best she can barely fit in her shower herself, or he would have tried to climb in with her; he'd given her a mock glare when she'd shooed him out of the bathroom. 

“Do you want to get food or Belle first?” she asks when she's locking the front door behind them. Her neighbor across the street is mowing his lawn and he waves at them as they walk to her truck. Jaime's presence is definitely going to encourage questions at the next “chance” meeting her neighbor's wife arranges. 

“Food,” Jaime says, patting his stomach. “I worked up an appetite.” 

Brienne rolls her eyes, knowing her cheeks are pink, and lets them into the truck. Jaime's every movement now makes her think of him in her bed – the way his hand holds onto the dash, his legs sliding across the vinyl. As if she needed more ways to be distracted by him. 

She takes him to her favorite local diner. Their waitress, Ferny, has been working this diner for as long as Brienne can remember, and she's extra cheerful with her “Good mornin'!” when they enter. Her hair is gray and tightly coiffed and her eyes are shrewd when she hurries over. 

“Hello, hon,” she tells Brienne, then leans her hip against the edge of the table and gives Jaime a once-over. It's discerning, not lustful or disbelieving, and Brienne feels a surprising surge of gratitude. “Who's your friend?”

“This is Jaime,” she says, and he gives Ferny a thousand-watt smile that doesn't seem to impress her. 

“Handsome fella,” she says, still looking at Jaime while clearly talking to Brienne. “Can't trust handsome, though.” 

“He's alright,” Brienne says, grinning a little at Jaime's vaguely offended look. 

“I trust you,” Ferny says, patting Brienne's hand. She points her pencil at Jaime. “But I'm keeping an eye on you.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he says, polite and serious, and Brienne's heart thumps a little harder. 

They both order huge plates of food and devour all of it: chicken and waffles, thick slices of ham and fried potatoes. Biscuits and gravy, too, which Jaime moans happily over. Even the jam is freshly made and a burst of tart sweetness when slathered on warm toast. Their conversation isn't so different from their usual Wednesdays, except they touch each other more. He rubs the toe of his boot along her calf under the table, she brushes his fingers with hers when he rests his hand on the table. The afternoon ticks away, but they linger in the booth long enough to order a slice of pie each and finish those, too. By then it's late enough that she texts Jon to just bring Belle to the bar with him, and he responds with a winking emoji that makes her smile. 

“We've got about forty-five minutes before we need to meet Jon at the bar,” she tells Jaime when they're in the truck again. “Anything you want to do?” 

He slouches back against the passenger side door, one arm stretched out along the back of the bench seat, and he widens his legs a little. “I have some ideas,” he says in a sultry voice that should only be absurd but he somehow makes it work. 

“God, no, I'm way too full,” she tells him firmly. “Besides, I have to be presentable.”

“I promise not to mess up your hair,” he tells her and she holds her hand out to keep him from moving towards her. He gives her a curling smile, and her heart curves the same way. “I'd rather you take me to the bar, anyway. I've wondered about all those photos you've got on the walls.” 

“Really?” she asks, furrowing her brow. 

“Sure. It's family history. I want to learn all about you, Brienne.” 

She's speechless, touched and overwhelmed, and all she can do in reply is start up the truck. Jaime turns on the radio as they drive; he sings along to one song, criticizes another. 

“I hate these ones that are all narrow-minded, patriotic bullshit,” he says when an older Toby Keith song comes on. He flicks off the radio in disgust and stares out the window. 

“There does seem to be an audience for that kind of thing. But you've seen there's an audience for your music, too.” 

“I suppose. The history of country is so much wider than that. But when a label signs you,” Jaime says in a voice much quieter than his usual boisterous volume, “there's a certain level of ownership that an artist gives up, precisely because of the perceived size of the Toby Keith audience. I'll have to use my real name, I'll probably get a makeover, and I'm sure they'll give me some sort of public relations oversight. But I don't want to make their music. I want to make mine.” 

“Isn't that what they'll sign you for? Your music?” 

He leans his head back and looks over at her. Familiar scenery, alternating green and brown, rushes past out the window behind him. “Maybe. They'll sign me for my name, too. My past. My comeback story,” he says, bittersweet as lemonade. 

“Can't you use those things to bargain with?” she asks, glancing at him again.

“A devil's bargain, but yes.” He dismissively waves his hand in the air. “I'm just getting caught up in my own head. Nothing has happened yet; it's a waste of time to worry about it now.” He sounds unconcerned, but there's still a line between his brows as he stares out the window. 

She turns the radio back on, and it's moved on to a softer tune. Jaime takes her hand as she drives, his thumb rubbing small circles on her skin. The drive doesn't last nearly as long as she'd like after that; she's not done enjoying just holding his hand by the time the sign for Selwyn's appears. 

Brienne pulls into her usual spot and they hop out. “It looks different in the middle of the day,” Jaime says, examining the outside of the building curiously. 

She pauses to try to see it with fresh eyes. The door is weathered and heavily scuffed at the bottom. There's an old, rainbow-colored 'Everyone is welcome here!' sticker that's coming off at one corner. The neon _Cold Beer_ sign hasn't worked for months, though she's reminded her dad about replacing it. The overall story the outside of the bar tells as it bakes under the sunlight is one of age and benign neglect. 

Brienne unlocks the door, silently letting Jaime in ahead of her. There's not much to say. The bar does look different in sunshine, less able to hide the hundreds of small corners they've had to cut to keep it running all this time. She's seen the totals for the last few months from Jaime's draw, though, and there's money now that can be used to start making these fixes. Brienne makes a note to talk to her dad later about what his plans are. 

Once inside, Jaime comes up behind her and wraps his arms around her waist. Sleeping together has unleashed his affections. It feels strange, and her first instinct is still to retreat, but his quiet confidence grounds her. 

“Where does the tour start?” he whispers in her ear, and she shivers in his grasp. 

“Over here,” she says, shuffling them to the far corner. The movement of their legs together rubs fabric all over sensitive places for both of them, and by the time they get to the first set of photos, she's buzzing and she can feel Jaime half-hard in his jeans. “You sure you're going to be able to pay attention to this?”

He kisses her neck, first one side, then the other, the brim of his hat brushing her temples. “I'm paying very close attention,” he says, biting lightly at the tendon of her shoulder. 

“I am not having sex in the bar,” she warns him. She can feel his smile against her ear. 

“Is that a today-only declaration or forever?” He tugs her braid aside and kisses the bump of her spine. 

“Today,” she sighs, and his breath is warm on the nape of her neck when he laughs. 

He presses one more kiss to her skin and then untwines himself from behind her, instead standing at her side, his arm slung low around her waist. “I'll be good,” he promises, peering at the photos, before looking at her. “For today.” 

He keeps his promise and more, paying attention to her initially halting and abrupt descriptions, and slowly coaxing more stories out of her for each photo. They spend some time at a small cluster of pictures of her and Gal with their mother, and she notices Jaime rub his own arm lightly, where his tattoo is slightly visible poking out of his sleeve. 

They move on and she points out a few locally famous singers that have played there, the well-loved weatherman that died ten years back, a stray dog that once chased away what her dad was certain had been a rabid raccoon from attacking a young Brienne; neither dog nor raccoon were ever seen again. 

“So, what, it was a ghost dog?” Jaime asks dryly. 

“It was real enough to take a photo with,” she says. “But who knows. I've seen some strange things on the back roads at night.” 

Jaime's eyes are gleaming impishly. “I would never have expected the very serious Brienne Tarth to believe in the supernatural.” 

“You would, too, if you'd been saved by a ghost dog,” she says pointedly, and Jaime's laughter floats up to the ceiling. 

She watches him – the line of his neck, the angle of his jaw, the curls of his hair – and says: “We should take a picture of you, too.” 

“Only if you'll take it with me.” 

“I don't know,” she says hesitantly. The number of photos Brienne has willingly been in have dropped dramatically with time, and for the last five years there's only one, from the first month after Galladon left. It's a shot of her and her dad behind the bar, heads bent together as they studied the inventory on the clipboard they were each holding a side of. Goodwin had taken it, printed it out and titled it 'Legacy.' Every time she looks at it, she feels the deep roots of her love for the bar, as well as the weight of all she's bearing on her shoulders – her family's hopes, and her own.

“Yes,” Jaime says firmly. “We'll have Jon take it when he gets here. You and me, outside of the bar.” 

“Why outside?”

“Because I like to think of you in the sunshine,” he says, pulling her into his arms and kissing her gently. The door opens and Jon steps in, hesitating when he sees Jaime and Brienne holding each other. She tenses and automatically thinks to pull away, but Jaime doesn't move at all, just keeps his arms loose around her waist, his thumb rubbing the small of her back. His ease is a reminder that she _can_ stay, though she doesn't have to. 

_Courage_ , she thinks, and forces herself to relax, exhaling into a smile. 

“Hey,” she says and Jon's wariness disappears instantly. 

“Hey!” His chirped greeting is loud in the bar and Jaime snickers a little next to her. She squeezes him to silence. “I've got Belle in my truck, should I bring her in?”

“Yeah, I can mop up in here after Jaime takes her home in a bit.” 

“Let me get her and we'll take her through the side door. Save you all some cleaning,” Jaime says. “Give me a minute to get her crazies out and then you can let us in.” He kisses Brienne swiftly before heading out with Jon. “We have another favor to ask you, too,” she hears Jaime saying as the door closes behind them. 

Brienne spins a slow circle in the empty bar, taking it all in. It looks the same as it had last night; more daylight, though that only highlights the dusty corners. But everything about it feels full of possibility now. Like the things to fix are opportunities, not problems. _She_ feels different. Instead of uncertain and tired, she's brimming with hope. It's been so long since she's believed in anything just for herself. 

She bites down on the joyful smile that's threatening to burst forth and hurries for the back, propping the door open. Jaime is running Belle in a circle on her leash, while Jon walks back towards the bar. He sees her at the door and alters his course to head that way. 

Jon stops and turns around when he gets there, watching Jaime and Belle, too. When Jaime bends over to pick up a stick to throw, Jon makes an appreciative little noise in his throat and then looks at Brienne nervously. “Sorry, I--”

“Look all you want,” she reassures him. “Lord knows I do.” 

Jon grins a little, nudging her with his toe. “Seems like things went well last night after he came back inside.”

“You could say that,” Brienne affirms, flushing. 

“I have to admit I was wondering. You should have seen him when he asked me to watch Belle. I don't think I've ever seen anybody that desperate before.”

“Well... we worked it out,” Brienne says, uncomfortable with offering more. “I didn't know you had a dog.” 

Jon shrugs. “It never came up, I guess. His name's Ghost. He wasn't thrilled I brought Belle home, but he behaved.” Jaime's still exercising Belle, slapping his thighs while she hops and barks around him. “I'm glad all is good. You deserve it.” 

She looks at Jon, surprised, and he gives her a gentle smile. It's always been easier – safer, she admits – to keep people at a distance, though she's watched other people's connections with yearning eyes. Even Jon, for all the nights they've worked together, has been a coworker and not much more. Maybe it's time she starts reaching back when someone holds out a welcoming hand. 

“Thanks,” she says. “How about you? Anyone in your life?” 

“There is a girl,” he says, leaning against the wall and smiling tentatively. “This band she likes is playing Monday night. I actually was hoping you could cover for me with your dad? I could flip with you next Sunday if you want, give you a weekend night with your hot country stripper.”

Brienne lightly smacks him on the shoulder, but she's chuckling. “Don't call him that.”

“I'm glad he has a real name besides 'Colt Thunder.'”

“Me too,” she admits. “Though it's still weird that he's Jaime Lannister.” 

Jon's mouth drops open in shock. “He's _who_?”

“Oh shit, I didn't tell you, did I?”

“No, you did not. Now I'm even more jealous.” 

Brienne laughs. “Why?”

“I had a picture of him on my wall growing up.” 

“Me too!” They grin at each other, and Brienne regrets never taking this chance before. This is the most they've ever talked about their lives. “So tell me about this girl,” Brienne says, and as they wait for Jaime and Belle to join them, Jon does. 

When they do arrive, Jaime's somehow even more lethally attractive when he's slightly sweaty, with a beaming smile and dirt on his rough hands. She knows now how those hands feel when they're holding tight, those fingers when they're probing deep. Brienne feels her whole face go red and she quickly kneels down to greet Belle, although she knows Jaime is watching her – aware, as always, of her response to him. 

“Jon said he'll take our picture,” Jaime says from above. It'll be a remarkable photo with Jaime looking like this – bright and hopeful as an open road beckoning her into the sunrise. “Let's do it now, before you have to start working.” 

“By the door,” Jon says, heading around to the front of the building. “It'll look great!”

Jaime tugs Brienne up from the ground and they close Belle in the room. Then she's in his arms. Pulled there, she thinks, although she may have stepped in. It's hard to tell and it doesn't matter, because he's holding her against his chest and kissing her, eager and searching. 

“What's that about, cowboy?” she asks when he breaks it off with a last brush of his tongue over hers.

Instead of answering, he asks his own question: “What were you thinking about?” 

She licks her lips and pushes him away a little. “Nothing you need to know.” 

“You were thinking about me, weren't you?” he says, puffed up and smug, his fingers stretching back to her waist to try to pull her near. 

“No,” she lies. “The only time I think about you is when you're annoying me.” 

“I must have been annoying you pretty vigorously, based on how red you went,” he teases and she pushes him further away. 

“Quit it. We need to go take your picture and I don't want to look like I was sunburned when we do.” 

“I don't want to have a hard-on, either, so I'll stop.” He tugs lightly at the neck of her shirt, though, and she wonders how rude it would be to drag him into the back room while Jon waits outside. 

Entirely too rude, she decides reluctantly, and instead takes Jaime's hand and leads him to where Jon is waiting with his phone already out and pointing their way. She hears the snap of the camera. 

“Perfect,” Jon says, looking at it. He holds the phone up so they can see as they get near. The framing is good – she and Jaime are walking side-by-side and hand-in-hand, and Jon's caught half of the building as well, enough to tell that it's Selwyn's. But what stands out, even to her, are their faces. That look from the mirror this morning is back on Brienne's face as she's staring at the camera, but Jaime's eyes are entirely on her, crinkled with happiness, his mouth partially open in a soft, admiring smile.

_It might be something amazing_ , she hears again. Not just amazing, she realizes now – extraordinary.

* * *

Later that night, just before the dinnertime surge, Jaime sends her a message. She opens it while standing at the bar. 

It's a photo of the top half of his body, and he's shirtless, although she can see from his reflection in the mirror behind him that he's naked all the way down. Except for the hat he's wearing, and the shit-eating grin. 

_Told you I'd walk into the shower with it on someday_ the message says. _Wish you were here to remind me to take it off._

Brienne slams the phone back down on the bar and Jon looks up from where he's stacking glasses. 

“Everything all right?” he asks. 

“Yep!” Brienne chirps. “Just need to do something real quick.” 

She takes her phone to the back room and shuts the door before she looks at the message again for a long minute, admiring what she can see. His ass is impressive, and she can faintly see marks she'd left on his back last night. Though his body is ridiculous, it's his eyes she's trapped by, even in still-life. They're lively and sweet and she's thought about them in the darkness of her bedroom for a lot of nights since they met. Those eyes are the reason she first trusted him at all. 

_Wish I was there, too,_ she sends.

_How's work?_ he returns quickly. 

_Fine_ , she texts back, and then looks around the small room to make sure both doors are closed. She takes a deep breath before lifting her shirt up just enough to expose the small swell of the underside of her breasts – a hint more than anything – and she takes an awkward selfie of her torso with the back room out of focus behind her. She quadruple-checks that she's texting with just Jaime and then sends him the picture without a comment, then deletes it from her own phone, her cheeks blazing. 

“What am I doing?” she asks the empty room. Temporary insanity brought on by the unexpected, foolish giddiness that Jaime evokes in her. She can't even text him without it taking a sharp turn from the path she so clearly should keep them on. The voicemail light on her dad's office line is blinking, and even though she leaves those to him, she's considering listening to them to re-focus herself on work, when her cell buzzes. It's not a text, though – Jaime is calling her. 

“Hello?” she says nervously. 

“You're killing me,” he growls into her ear, and Brienne feels the hairs on her arm raise. “Now that's all I'm gonna think about when I'm playing next week. You in that back room, teasing me with those delicious breasts.”

“Jaime,” she hisses, as though he's standing there talking and not at his own home in Nashville. 

“This is very helpful practice for if I ever do go on tour someday. What else are you wearing?”

“Jaime,” she says again, but this time she laughs a little. “I'm in the same clothes you left me in. At work, I remind you. I'm not gonna have phone sex with you, either.”

“I just asked what you were wearing, darlin'. I didn't say anything about how I'd strip if off of you.” 

“Goodbye, Jaime,” she says firmly, because his voice is as fine-tuned as his guitar, and he uses it to the same effect. 

“At least tell me what color panties you've got on, I've forgotten,” he protests, but she can hear the smile in his voice. 

She decides two can play this game. “Bold of you to assume I'm still wearing them,” she says, and then hangs up, grinning. 

Brienne's phone rings again and she sends it to voicemail. A text pops up almost immediately. 

_Wench_.

She makes a face at her phone. 

_I prefer Barkeep_ , she types back.

_Unbutton your pants a little and take a picture, Barkeep, I want proof._

The door opens then and Brienne spins around, her face aflame when Jon steps in. 

“Uh, hey,” he says. “We needed more cherries.” 

“Yeah, of course, it's fine, that's fine. They're right there,” she points, although she knows Jon already knows that. 

“You good?”

“Mm-hm,” she says, tucking her phone back in her pocket. It buzzes two more times, and after Jon exits with another curious look her way, she reads the message. 

_Here's *my* proof._

The photo he's sent is, technically, not indecent. It's his abdomen and hips in frame, and he's still shirtless but he's wearing jeans this time. They're unbuttoned, though, and the zipper is open most of the way and she can see the trail of golden hair arrowing down his smooth skin and disappearing into shadows that suggest rather than show the bulge that she knows is there. His thumb and finger are at the V of the zipper, like he's been caught pulling it down – or waiting to be told to finish the job. He's definitely not wearing any underwear, and the jeans look loose enough she could tug them off with little effort. Her own fingers curl more tightly around the phone with the urge to do just that. He's going to be the death of her. 

She manages to type out a coherent response, though it takes autocorrect two tries to figure out what she's trying to say.

_You're incorrigible_

He responds almost immediately. _Hey! You got a calendar too!_

Brienne shakes her head, and she knows the smile on her face is revealingly fond. It feels a million times better than the tension that had been pinching her shoulders last night. 

_I've gotta get back to work,_ she texts. _Give Belle a belly rub for me._

_Will do. Hope you have a good night._ And then, one last message: _Think about me_.

She shuts her phone off, and spends all night doing just that.


	13. Life ain't always beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say goodbye and hang up and Brienne doesn't even get a chance to turn around before her father says, “Did you say Jaime Lannister?”
> 
> “You're bad at not eavesdropping,” she says dryly as she faces him 
> 
> “You took the call right in the middle of the room, what did you expect?” Her father is behind the bar, and he gets out a glass and fills it with water. “Why don't you come talk to your old man for a few minutes? We've got time."

Brienne's just arrived at work on Monday when Jaime calls. Even seeing his name on her lockscreen makes her heart leap. She glances over at her father, who's busy behind the bar, and shuffles a little further away to answer. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Lannister,” she says when she picks up, and Jaime's laugh is warm as a summer breeze. 

“Good afternoon, Ms. Tarth,” he says; his voice holds the memory of the other night's heat. “You still working tonight?” 

“Yeah, I just got in. How's your day job?”

“Boring and money-grubbing. The usual. Despairing about not being able to see you tonight.” 

Brienne snickers at the melodramatic woe with which he says the last, although there's a part of her that likes it, and feels the same. “Whatever will you do with yourself?”

“Would you like the play-by-play?” he offers in an entirely inappropriate-for-work tone, and she flushes, keeping her back firmly turned to her dad. 

“I'm at work,” she reminds him. 

Jaime hums a little over the line. “Me, too, but my office has a door that locks.” 

She frantically reels in all thoughts about what he might be doing in his office alone – or with her – and stares down at her boots on the old wood floor. It needs to be refinished, but that's an expense she hasn't been able to talk her dad into yet. “Did you call just to make me blush?” 

“Kinda,” he chirps, and she shakes her head, but there's no hiding her smile now. 

“Mission accomplished.”

He laughs again, and it rolls through her like distant thunder. “Good. I look forward to seeing it live and in person on Wednesday. We're still on for your place, right?” 

“Yeah.” She drags her toe over a long, dark scratch in the floor. “You're sure you don't want me to drive to you this time? I can leave after dinner, if that's your concern. I don't have anywhere to be in the morning like you do.” 

“I don't mind. Besides, we haven't explored all the available surfaces in your house yet,” he says and the rough promise of his voice thrills her. “I'm late to my next meeting, but I wanted to catch you before your night started. Text me any more photos if you want.” 

Brienne laughs a little. “Get back to work, Jaime.” 

“Yes, Barkeep.” 

They say goodbye and hang up and Brienne doesn't even get a chance to turn around before her father says, “Did you say Jaime Lannister?”

“You're bad at not eavesdropping,” she says dryly as she faces him 

“You took the call right in the middle of the room, what did you expect?” Her father is behind the bar, and he gets out a glass and fills it with water. “Why don't you come talk to your old man for a few minutes? We've got time. You've got this place so well-organized I don't know why you even come in so early anymore.” 

“How do you think it stays organized?” she says, but she sits down across from him on a stool. Brienne's not used to being on this side of the bar, and she scans it with an eye towards what a customer would see. It looks appealing enough, though she thinks it might look better if they re-arranged the bottles in a more orderly manner. 

“So. Jaime Lannister?” 

“Yes, Jaime Lannister.”

“That sounded awfully friendly.” He idly wipes at a glass. His hands are even bigger than hers, but they're gentle. They always have been. 

“You could say that,” she says. Brienne tugs her lip between her teeth and then sighs. “We're dating.” 

“Is this the same Jaime Lannister that used to sing all those years ago?” 

“The very one.” 

Selwyn's bushy eyebrows lift in surprise. “How on earth did you meet him?”

Brienne's a _little_ annoyed at his shock. She's introverted, not a recluse. At least she doesn't think she is. Though to be fair she does spend most of her life either at home or the bar. Until Jaime showed up and lured her out. 

“You know Colt Thunder?” she asks and Selwyn smacks the bar with a meaty palm. 

“I _knew_ he seemed familiar!” he crows. “Jaime Lannister. Well I'll be. Didn't see that one coming.” 

Brienne nods. “It surprised me, too.”

“How long have you two been together?”

If she'd had a boyfriend at sixteen, she suspects her dad would have sounded just like this then, too. “A little while,” she says, not sure how to mark the beginning of her relationship with Jaime. Three days ago when they went to bed together? The Fourth of July, when she kissed him? The first time she agreed to go out on a not-date? 

“Are you being careful? Physically?” he asks and Brienne flushes with mortification. 

“I am not talking about that with you.” 

“Your mama's not here, someone's gotta do it.”

“I'm twenty-seven! No one has to do it any longer!” she protests. “Just... everything is fine, okay?”

“Okay, okay, don't get your laces knotted up.” He stares at her with a disconcerting expression on his face, like he's waiting for some bad news; or waiting to give it. “He's good to you, though?”

“Yes, Daddy, he's wonderful. Smug sometimes and _very_ confident, but kind. He's got a dog he adores. Spoils her, really.” 

“Well, that changes everything,” Selwyn says, grinning at her, and Brienne laughs a little. “Did you fall for him because of the dog?” 

“It didn't hurt his cause,” she says, smiling back. 

“That's fair. A man that knows how to love an innocent creature is more likely to do right by you, too. You will be careful, though? Not like that,” he adds quickly. “But with your heart.” 

Her father's heart is soft, too, and it had been ripped to pieces when her mom died. Brienne wonders how much of her reticence is inherited from that seismic shift in their lives. 

“As careful as I can be,” she tells him. And then adds, because she's only just embraced it herself: “But there's got to be some risk.” 

“I know.” He sighs, and he has that look again, of impending dark clouds. “I haven't had a chance to talk to him, yet. He's still playing Fridays, right?” 

“He is. You should come by this Friday. He has a supporting band now – they sound incredible, and you can meet him afterward.” 

“I'd like that. I'll see if I can lure Gal down, too. He hasn't been here in too long.” 

Her anger at her brother for the way he's left them behind is familiar, so when it rises up in her chest she manages to push it back down again with only a little effort. Her father will either defend Gal over it, or just accept the truth with that defeated look she hates, and she doesn't feel like dealing with either right now. “That sounds good,” she says instead, though she doesn't expect it to work.

They stare at each other across the bar that connects them. “I'm happy for you, Angel,” he says, reaching out to squeeze her hands. “Truly.”

“Thanks, Daddy. I'm happy, too.” She's still nervous – even Jaime's intense heat can't burn out every cobweb in her heart so quickly – but she wouldn't be surprised if someone said she were glowing; she feels like she is. 

“I'm gonna call Gal,” he dad says. “Run in back and get some more napkins, will you? It's almost time to open.” 

“Of course.” She slides off of the stool and heads for the back with an easy step. As soon as she enters, she sees the light on her dad's line is blinking again. They'd only ever had the one for years, but several months ago he'd gotten a second line just for behind-the-scenes business, leaving the main bar phone for Brienne to handle. She doesn't mind – he's the one who deals with the finances and suppliers, who don't hide how much they'd rather talk to her father anyway, and she prefers answering the questions of customers and interested acts on the main line. She's been happy to not have to deal with the rest of it. Her father still complains about the voicemail system, though – he never even figured out how to change the default password – and she has time to kill, so Brienne pulls out a pad of paper and a pen, and sits down at the desk to start capturing her dad's messages for him. 

“Mr. Tarth,” the first message starts, a very serious-sounding man. “This is our fifth contact regarding your overdue account with our wholesaler. We have also sent you notification through the US Postal Service. If we do not hear from you within two business days, we will be forced to initiate litigation.” The message goes on to provide the name and number of the contact, but Brienne is too shocked to move. There's a beep and the next message starts. 

The voice is a woman this time, but she sounds no less dire. “Mr. Tarth, we are calling today regarding the debt that was given to us for collection, if we do not hear from you--”

Brienne presses next. 

“Selwyn Tarth, you will be served with defaulting on a debt if you do not contact our offices--”

Next. 

“Our records show that you are overdue in paying your bill--”

Next. 

“The power company would like to work with you if you are having issues. Please contact us at--”

Next. 

“--overdue--”

Next.

“--we haven't heard from you--”

Next.

“--sue you--”

Brienne smacks the stop button and stares at the light blinking and blinking and blinking. 

She peers through the open door out to the bar, but though she can hear her dad's deep tones, she can't see him. She feels like she's been shoved into murky water. This can't be real. The bar has been struggling, but her father's never said anything that would indicate they were in this kind of trouble. Fixes have slipped and the inventory got slimmed down, but he'd said they were preventative changes. Things any smart bar owner would do in lean times. 

There has to be an explanation for all of this that isn't just that he's been lying to her all this time. Brienne carefully sets her pen down and heads back out to the main space. 

Selwyn turns as she walks in, and he's positively beaming as he talks on the phone. “Looking forward to it, son. We'll see you then. Don't worry, I won't tell her.” He makes a face at Brienne and all she can think is: _another lie_. “All right. Love you. Bye now.” He disconnects and then laughs a little. “Pretend you didn't hear that,” he says. 

Brienne doesn't even know how to begin this conversation. So she starts as she always does: with the truth. “I listened to your messages on the machine just now. Is the bar in trouble?” 

Her father's face hesitates and then falls, like the collapse of an old building. He looks a decade older in an instant. “You're too diligent,” he tells her and it cracks the ice that had frozen her heart. 

“Don't you dare blame me for this,” she snaps and he holds up one big hand in surrender. 

“I'm not, Angel. I just didn't want you to know.” 

“Why the hell would you want to keep this from me?” she demands. 

“Because it's my problem. It's my bar.” 

“ _Your_ bar?” Brienne might have accepted it if he'd said he wanted to protect her, but this is too much. “You come in twice a week and leave almost everything but the finances to me. I grew up here. This is my bar as much as it's yours.” 

“It's not,” he says, his shoulders tensing. “Don't go assuming responsibility that's not yours to take.” 

Brienne shakes her head and looks to the side, breathing hard in and out through her nose. Anger won't help here, but it's so hard not to shout right now. After a few steadying breaths, she meets his gaze again. “How bad is it? Because it sounds pretty bad.” 

“It's not good,” he says hesitantly. “But your Jaime is helping. I've been paying off the worst of it with what he's brought in.” 

“Do you have a plan that's not just relying on a single act to save us?” She's mad and it's seeping through, her words ridged with the fear and fury she's trying not to unleash. 

“It's been working,” he insists. “It will keep working.” 

“He's not gonna stay here forever! You can't just assume he'll solve all our problems.” 

“Maybe he will, now that you two are--”

“Don't,” she says, in a low voice. “Don't finish that sentence. Jaime is not a tool to be used. And our relationship isn't some transaction.” She's disgusted, infuriated just by the idea that she would try to keep Jaime here for the bar. 

“I'm sorry, you're right.” Selwyn holds his hands out helplessly. “There's not much else we can do, Angel. The bar is what it is. Everything gets more expensive every year, but we don't get more regulars to make up for it, and people don't come out here for nobodies.” 

“Then we need a plan to attract other talent. To get out into other communities and make it their favorite bar, too. You can't just resign yourself to letting it die.” 

“I don't know how to do what you're proposing. The amount of work it's gonna take, and with such a slim chance of success...” Selwyn exhales, already defeated. “Nothing lasts forever. I don't know that it's worth it.” 

That tune is too familiar. Any other time and she might be laughing at how much alike they are. Galladon has always told her their dad hadn't been like this before her mom died, but Brienne had been too young to know more than the man he is now: cautious and protective and only seeing the worst. “We won't know if we don't try,” she says. “I'm willing to fight. Are you?” 

Her father gives her a sad smile. “Do I have a choice?”

“No,” she says firmly.

“Then I suppose I'm in.” 

Brienne exhales sharply, but it doesn't dislodge the knot of anger sitting tight in her chest. “I know you wanted Gal to take over for you, but you've got me. Don't treat me like I'm just hired help.” 

“Brienne--”

She holds her hand up to stop him. “Just listen to me a minute. I didn't stay here only because Galladon left. I love this bar, and what it means to our family. To me. Sometimes this feels more like my childhood home than our house does. I'm your daughter, but I'm also your partner now. If you can't treat me like that going forward, then this isn't going to work.” 

In the heavy silence that follows, she realizes that she's afraid. It's been easy to be mad at Gal all this time, because he left and he can carry the weight of it from his distance. But she's been mad at her father, too, for letting Gal go and not giving her the space her brother left behind. He's been blocking Brienne out, like Galladon would come back and fill it in someday, when all she's wanted was to pour herself into the bar. 

Selwyn nods, slowly. He looks exhausted, heavy with regret. “That's fair.” 

“And don't ever suggest again that I would manipulate Jaime into staying here,” she adds. 

“That was wrong of me. I'm sorry for that. Will you accept a hug as apology?” 

“Daddy,” she sighs. She's irritated still, but she welcomes his strong arms wrapping around her with the same fervent love as always. Even now, her father's embrace is somewhere she can rest, if just for a moment. 

He kisses her forehead. “I hope you know that I'm not disappointed you're here because I wish it was Galladon instead,” he says softly. “It hurts my heart that you think that. You can do anything, when you believe in yourself. I only wanted more for you than this.”

“This is what I want,” she tells him. “I like that this matters because it's ours. I want to keep that as long as we can.” 

Her father's arms tighten around her, and his chest expands with his slow inhale. “We'll do our best,” he says. 

“That's all we can do,” she agrees. She just hopes she isn't losing this dream right as she's reached out for another.


	14. You can't move on til you let go of what's gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As soon as she starts towards him, he gets out of his truck to greet her. He's sworn to himself the entire drive that he'll be cool and collected, but that all falls away when the sunset lights her corn silk hair with shades of gold, and he meets her halfway in the parking lot, pulling her in to kiss her hard.

Jaime pulls into the parking lot of Selwyn's an hour early that Friday, far more nervous than he'd expected to be. Part of it is because Brienne had warned him that her father, and possibly her brother, would be at the concert tonight, and 'meeting the family' is one of those traditional boyfriend tasks he's not had experience with. But Jaime's good with people, even ones he wants very badly to impress, so it doesn't fully explain the depth of his nerves. Nothing explains it, until he texts Brienne that he's arrived and she appears out the side door a minute later. 

_She_ is the reason he's so nervous tonight, because she'd called him Tuesday in the middle of the morning and apologetically canceled on Wednesday. 

“I'm really sorry, but I have some urgent bar stuff to take care of,” she'd said and when he'd pressed she'd said she'd tell him about it on Friday, but it couldn't be put off. 

“I can come down and help,” he'd offered, and she'd sighed a little. 

“I wish you could,” she'd said, sounding sad. “But it's something I have to handle by myself and I really need to focus. We can talk about it Friday, I promise. It's not something I want to discuss over the phone.” 

So Wednesday night Jaime had taken Belle to the dog park alone, had ordered too much Thai delivery for himself, and, if he's being honest, had sulked. Even Belle had gotten sick of him and put herself to bed well before he turned off the reality TV marathon he'd gotten sucked into. 

It wasn't as if Brienne had ignored him the rest of the week, either. She'd texted him funny links and small messages; they'd talked Thursday during lunch. But the physical distance was enough that it gave too much roaming space for the herd of worries he hadn't been able to corral. 

As soon as she starts towards him, he gets out of his truck to greet her. He's sworn to himself the entire drive that he'll be cool and collected, but that all falls away when the sunset lights her corn silk hair with shades of gold, and he meets her halfway in the parking lot, pulling her in to kiss her hard. 

She returns it with equal fervor, her arms going around him to hold him close, her lips searching and eager. When they break apart, she looks like he's the cavalry come to save her. 

“I missed you,” she breathes, and the truth in her tone banishes the last of his fears. 

He kisses her again, sweetly, and tells her, “I missed you, too.” 

They get Belle settled in the office, and then he tugs Brienne towards him by the ends of her flannel shirt. His fingers slide under the fabric, brush the warm skin of her stomach and her muscles vibrate like his guitar. “Maybe you could recreate that photo for me,” he murmurs, and she laughs, but it's shaky. 

“No way,” she tells him. Her fingers curl around his belt buckle and this time it's his stomach jumping at the touch of her knuckles. “Not unless you go first.” 

“You know I will,” he says with a wicked grin. When Brienne leans forward to kiss him again, Jaime curls his fingers into her hips, and she moans against his mouth before breaking away. 

“This is a truly terrible idea and I'm not going to let you talk me into it,” she says, panting. 

“Can I convince you some other way?” he asks, pressing his growing erection against her thigh. She gasps a little and he considers all the ways they could make use of this room, but Brienne is shaking her head with a disappointing amount of emphasis. 

“I need to go back out there and you need to make yourself respectable.” 

“That seems like a tall order, Barkeep.” 

Brienne tugs his hat down over his eyes and Jaime laughs. “Do your best. You have to meet my family tonight.” 

That, Jaime discovers, is as effective as a cold shower for disrupting his sexy plans. “Saved by the family,” he tells her. 

“I'm not sure 'saved' is the verb I'd use,” she murmurs, and he grabs Brienne's hand before she can leave. She looks back at him, her cheeks still pink with her flush, her eyes wide and happy. Jaime wraps his hand around hers, puzzle pieces fitting into place. It's been six days and he doesn't know if it's because he hasn't stopped thinking about her, but it's the first time since he left Saturday that he feels at ease again. 

“Did you get all your bar stuff done?” he asks, and her fingers tighten around his. She looks more upset than he would have expected, but he's certain now it's not about them. 

“Not exactly,” she says, glancing briefly towards the closed door to the bar. “Can we talk about it tonight? It's... complicated.”

“Of course.” Jaime presses a kiss to Brienne's fingers and lets her go. She gives him one last, small smile before she shuts the door behind her.

* * *

Jaime's setting up with the band a little while later when a man who is clearly Selwyn Tarth looms at the edge of the stage. Brienne is stuck behind the bar serving patrons, but Jaime catches her watching them with wide eyes. He gives her a reassuring nod and hops down from the stage, which is a mistake his own father wouldn't hesitate to point out, since Selwyn Tarth is even taller than his daughter and at least Jaime had had height on him before. 

“You must be Selwyn,” Jaime says with what feels like an almost feral smile, shoving his hand towards the other man. 

“I am,” Selwyn says. Jaime can see Brienne's dry humor immediately in Selwyn's features, and it helps Jaime's shoulders lower a bit. “You must be Jaime.” 

“I'm Colt here,” Jaime says tightly. “Jaime everywhere else.” The band is busy onstage, and the early arrivals are leaving them alone, but the more well-known he gets, the more he's convinced someone is going to recognize him before he's ready. No sense inviting speculation he doesn't want. 

“Ah, yes,” Selwyn says. “So, Colt. You and Brienne are dating.” 

Jaime straightens, resolved to not be intimidated. “We are.” 

“Relax, I'm not here to test you, just meet you. She's an adult, as she reminded me.” 

“She is,” Jaime says with what might be a little too much force, but Selwyn just grins. 

“I only wanted to introduce myself. And make sure you're getting all the help you need with your performances as well.” 

“It's been a pleasure to play here,” Jaime says. “Jon's great, and you attract a solid crowd.”

Selwyn's face gets the same dark cast Brienne's had had earlier, and Jaime's starting to get an unpleasant curl in his stomach about what Brienne's so-called 'bar stuff' is about. “ _You_ attract the crowd, but thank you.” 

They stare awkwardly at each other before Selwyn sticks out a meaty hand once more and they shake. “Looking forward to hearing you play tonight, Colt.” 

“Thank you, sir,” Jaime says, because he didn't grow up a Lannister without learning some manners. 

Selwyn just raises one bushy eyebrow and then leaves him there. Jaime looks to Brienne again, who's doing an awful job of trying to help people while clearly only watching him and Selwyn. 

_Well?_ she mouths. 

_All good_ , he mouths back and he sees her slump a little with relief before re-focusing on her work. 

_First hurdle crossed_ , Jaime thinks, hopping back up on stage. First hurdle to what goal, he's not sure, but he's buoyant nonetheless as he finishes getting ready for the show. 

That airiness is punctured a bit when he hears someone say, “Mr. Thunder” behind him in a pointed tone. He turns to find Varys there. 

“What are you doing here?” Jaime asks, startled. 

“I heard this was your regular Friday night gig,” he replies in that effortlessly unconcerned way he has. “I thought I might watch you play, and perhaps talk to you after, since you have failed to call me back.” 

“I've been busy.”

“I see that.” Varys looks around the bar with a keen gaze that makes Jaime uncomfortable. “I am curious about your choice to play in a venue like this, though.” 

Jaime feels a fierce, protective surge swell inside his chest. “This is a family-owned bar. Every great artist got their start in places just like this. I'm honored to play here.” 

“Very politic of you, Colt. You'll do well with the media.”

“I'm only telling the truth.” 

“Mm. Well, if I might have some of your time after the concert?” 

“I suppose. You don't think following me all the way out here makes you seem a little desperate?” Jaime asks with a smirk. 

“Perhaps. But some investments pay great dividends, as I'm sure you're aware,” Varys leans forward and drops his voice, “Mr. Lannister.” 

Jaime's throat shuts for a moment and his brain feels like it's spinning in his head. The smirk disappears. “What did you say?”

“Come now, no need to extend this charade,” Varys says. “A name change can't hide everything.” 

Jaime jumps down from the stage and gets too close; Varys takes a step back with a seeming lack of concern, though his round face goes tight. “How long have you known?” 

Varys lifts one elegantly trimmed eyebrow. “I suspected at the first performance. A little digging around and I was proven right. It's good to see you back on stage, and, if I may be so crass, it will pay off handsomely for both of us.” 

Jaime's always known his real name would come out, that as much as he hated having to address his past, it would have to be faced in some way. But he's been preparing himself to tell Varys after a contract had been negotiated, to surprise the man with the news and show how he's moved beyond that little kid. To discover Varys has been after him the whole time precisely because he was that boy is a kick in the head. Jaime doesn't want to succeed because of who he was, to only be picked up as some sort of inspirational story. Jaime's story isn't inspirational at all: his mother died and his world fell apart, and his withdrawn and money-focused father didn't so much pick up the pieces as sweep them aside and expect Jaime to go on and wring every last dollar out of his loss. 

Jaime's known this moment was going to come at some point, but he hadn't wanted it to happen like this. 

“I don't perform as... as that name,” Jaime says. 

“You should. You've already put in your time at bars like this, there's no need to do it again.” 

“Hey Colt,” Margaery calls from a few feet away. “I need to talk to you about the opener, you almost done?” 

Jaime's still trying to re-center himself, and this conversation with Varys is not one he should be having in the middle of the ever-more-crowded floor. “Stay after the show,” he orders the other man. 

Varys spreads his hands wide. “Of course.”

Margaery's looking at him funny when he joins her. “Isn't that that manager?”

“Yeah.” Jaime pulls off his hat and scrubs his hand through his hair. 

“What the hell did he say? You look sucker-punched.” 

Jaime exhales, settling his hat back down. He hasn't told the band who he is yet, either, hasn't been sure when the right time is to do it. Before he signs with someone and asks them to come along? After, so they're enticed by the deal? They have good chemistry, the four of them, and he's gotten used to having Margaery's fiery energy burning on one side, Ilyn's cool calm soothing on the other, and Sandor behind him, indomitable and steady. He doesn't want to lose that just as his career is getting going, and he owes them the truth from his own lips. It might as well be tonight, in case Varys decides to publicize what he knows. 

“It's complicated,” Jaime says, and laughs a little at how much he sounds like Brienne. “I'll tell you after the show. We've got work to do.” 

“Bite your tongue,” Margaery says cheerfully. “This isn't work, this is music.” 

“Amen to that,” Jaime says. He looks around the bar, at the people chatting excitedly while they wait, Brienne talking with her dad behind the bar as they work in tandem. Varys leaning against the back corner, watching and waiting. 

Jaime wants to make music for the rest of his life, to absorb the energy of the crowd and reflect it back to them in a conversation that's the same and entirely different every time. The bad nights where he's tired and off and the good nights where he feels unstoppable. He's poked at Brienne for not following her own dreams, but he'd done the same for all those years in between his childhood and now. He can taste the potential on his tongue, and though he hadn't known it when he'd walked into Selwyn's that first Tuesday, he's ready to drink it down. 

He's just not sure he's ready to be Jaime Lannister again to do it.

* * *

It's a special kind of torture for Brienne to be stuck behind the bar, only able to watch from a distance as her father and her boyfriend meet for the first time, and not be able to intervene in any way. Not that she particularly needs her father and Jaime to get along – Jaime's dating her, not her family – but it would be nice. Not to mention that when her father had come into the bar, he'd come alone, and she'd known right away by the look on his face that Gal had found yet another reason not to show. That could have put Selwyn in a mood that even Jaime couldn't charm him out of. 

But the conversation between her dad and Jaime appears civil from Brienne's end, and Jaime looks unbothered when it's over so she decides to call it a win and instead think about how to pour the most fiscally responsible amount of alcohol while also keeping their customers happy. It's been five days that she's lived in this new reality – or, she supposes, actual reality instead of the careful lie her father had been telling – and her thoughts now seem to only ever turn towards scrimping pennies. 

It's impossible not to, when every napkin and chipped glass and ounce of whiskey are as good as money being burned. Brienne has spent much of the last week in the back room at the bar, going over every last scrap of paper and digital file they had to get a full accounting of what the bar's status is, and “not good” doesn't begin to cover it. 

Her father has been more magician than bar owner in the last several years, using loans to pay off credit cards, then credit cards to pay off loans; paying down one debt while he held off another, then switching them around when one side got too impatient. The last couple of months have been the worst, the avalanche of trickery finally catching up with him. No wonder he's been looking so worn out and worried lately: his very carefully built house of cards is fluttering apart. She'd captured every single voicemail and then deleted them all, and when new ones came in, she'd written those down, too. 

By the time she'd gotten home late every night, her brain had been completely fried and her soul had been heavy at the magnitude of the task ahead of them. It can be done, she's fairly sure, but it's going to take a hell of a lot of work, and even more luck. And at least some reliance on Jaime, which Brienne hasn't wanted to think about at all. 

Brienne's not looking forward to sharing all this with him later. He's going to be so concerned about it, about her, and she's not sure she'll be able to get through it without crying. She hasn't cried once yet, but only because she's been focused on the work and not the very real danger of this place that's so much a part of her being ripped away. It would be like losing a limb, she thinks. She'd survive it, but everything about her life would change with its absence, and she's not sure who she'd be anymore. 

Yet none of that is Jaime's problem. He still hasn't recorded his demo for the potential manager as it is, and she doesn't want him to feel any pressure to stay just to help a struggling bar, no matter how much that bar means to her. She'll tell him, of course – they're in this now and it's wrong to keep something of this magnitude in her life from him – but she's dreading it. 

She shoves that to the back of her head with everything else, because the bar is swiftly getting busier and Jon is still helping the band and her dad is chatting with some of the regulars. The work keeps her so busy that she's startled when the lights go down and Selwyn joins her behind the bar. Galladon still hasn't arrived, which means he won't. 

As the first strains of Margaery's fiddle kick in, she leans near her dad and whispers, “What's his excuse this time?”

Her father frowns at her. “It's not easy to get all the way out here on a Friday night.” 

“The band did. Some of these customers. We seem to manage the drive up to see him just fine.” 

“Brienne,” Selwyn sighs, and she reluctantly lets it go. Petulance isn't going to change the fact that her brother is pathologically unable to visit the bar that should have been his. 

Besides, Jaime is stepping into the deep blue spotlight, and she's drawn to him like a taut rope has wrapped around them both. He's letting the music introduce him, his head tilted down so she can't see his face under his hat, his hands resting loose on his guitar. It's hard not to think of the way those hands had felt on her when he strokes the guitar's body. He strums a long, aching chord that resonates around the room, before jumping into a complicated cascade of notes, and as his fingers dance over the frets, she feels the echo of it on her skin. Foolishly, she hadn't expected things to be so viscerally different now that they'd slept together. When he starts singing, his voice vibrates deep between her legs, and she takes an embarrassingly shaky breath. Thank god she doesn't have to focus on helping anyone right now. Brienne suspects she's not the only one imagining him naked, but she's the only one here who's seen his thighs flexed and shaking in bed, who's felt his stomach muscles under her grasping palms. 

Burning up, she turns her back on him, but just like the first night, it doesn't do anything to divert the onslaught of his voice, the way it wraps around the edges of her and pulls her in, just like he'd pulled her into his body. This song is a barely radio-friendly ode to sweaty, tangled sheets and long, hot nights, and it had been devastating even before the images Brienne now has of Jaime under her in bed, those talented fingers dug in hard on her hips, the way his mouth had felt on her chest. 

_Fuck it_ , Brienne thinks. She doesn't have to worry anymore about being too forward or if he's welcoming her stare, she might as well take advantage of it. She leans against the back of the bar and watches him openly. He looks directly at her on the low, deep register drop in the bridge, and her thighs clench in anticipation and memory both. Jaime winks at her, an arrow through her heart. Everything is so different from that first night. She's grateful, and shaken, by it. 

The concert is lively and fun, though Brienne can see tension in the way Jaime's smiles don't fully reach his eyes, hear it in his voice when he introduces the band. No one in the crowd seems to notice; they're responding with the same fervor and shining joy as always. They want to love him, and she doesn't blame them at all. 

She's not exactly sure what's bothering Jaime, but she suspects it's that manager, Varys, who'd unexpectedly shown up and is still watching from the back of the room. Hopefully it's good news. Although good news for Jaime casts its own, painful shadow for her. 

But Jaime sings through it, bringing it home and earning an encore. The lights come back on after and the post-show chaos means she doesn't have time to be anxious or sad or turned on. Her father helps behind the bar with her, closing tabs, getting a few last drinks, chatting with the excited crowd. Brienne focuses on the cleanup and cash out, keeping one eye on Jaime as he talks to the fans when he's behind the merch table with Jon. They'd needed Jon to start helping there, too, if only to keep the line moving while Jaime shakes hands and takes photos. The manager is still waiting, idly examining the pictures hanging along the bar's walls. 

Brienne pauses to try to soak everything in. Their nights like this are numbered, whether it's Varys or some other manager, some label, some person that will see what's so clear to Brienne and the fans smiling nervously when Jaime grins at them and signs their things. Jon had seen it from the first day: Jaime's a star, and he burns too brightly to keep his light locked away here. She's happy for him, but she'll miss these nights, even if – _when_ , she tells herself firmly, trying to make a habit of hope – he comes back. 

Her dad joins her at the register as she's counting the last bills.

“I see what you mean,” he says calmly, though his eyes are sad. She glances at him curiously. “He won't stay here long, will he?”

“No.” Brienne looks over her shoulder at Jaime, laughing with Jon and a couple who both look like they're happy to have his attention. “We're going to have to do this without him.” 

_I'm going to have to do this without him_ , she thinks, swallowing around the hard knot in her throat. She can, and she will, because Brienne has always known her own strength; has plowed independently through her life with headstrong will and focus. It's not the hard work that she's afraid of, it's the weakness of her own vulnerable heart alongside it that she's being forced to so directly face. She doesn't _need_ Jaime, but she wants him the way she's wanted almost nothing else in her life, and she doesn't know what to do with how defenseless that makes her feel. Wanting is scary, for her; it so often turns to intense disappointment. There's not much she can do except this: turn to the next customer, and the next, and try not to flinch in anticipated hurt, try not to lean towards Jaime like he's pulling her near, every time she hears his voice above the crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is only half of the story Friday, so I'm planning to post the second half later this week. I'm trying to keep chapters at a more reasonable length for this fic. :) Next time: The Jaime-Varys Talk, among other things.


	15. I was so sure of who I didn’t want to be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I'm not going to sell my story just to make a few bucks. I want to make music, Mr. Varys, not work the talk show circuit.”
> 
> The other man purses his lips, and Jaime shifts uncomfortably under his silent judgment. “You should consider very carefully what you want and what it is you _are_ willing to sell in order to achieve it. I won't be the last person who recognizes you, and I won't be the last person to ask you to use it either. If you can't stomach any of it, perhaps this,” he indicates Selwyn's with a nod of his head, “is the only place for you. Think carefully.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note about the chapter count – I have finally conceded defeat on trying to figure out the exact number of chapters I have left. I have a chapter-by-chapter outline, but I'm trying to keep the word limit on each chapter more reasonable in order to make sure the emotional beats hit the right way, so I'm having to cut chapters in half. Therefore, instead of the constant drip-drip-drip of # of chapter updates every week, I'm going to leave it as x/? until I finish writing the darn thing (or get close enough that I know for a fact how many I need, and then I'll put the actual final count. (If you want my guess right now? It'll be 26 chapters, but don't hold me to that. I'm in the middle of writing chapter 21 and this could all very well change.) 
> 
> ANYWAY. That's a lot of words to say: I still have a very specific outline for this story, I'm still working on it every single day, and I still have every intention of finishing it. I just can't guess exactly when that finish will come yet. :) Thank you and I hope you enjoy!

The crowd has cleared out when Jaime catches sight of Varys waiting, still, to talk to him. The man doesn't even look impatient, just cool and calm and calculating. Uncomfortable to be around, but the kind of personality you want in the person who's managing your career. Jaime's first manager had been emotional, and easy for Tywin to manipulate. Though Jaime doesn't expect his father to interfere this time, he wants someone that could stand up to his father if needed. 

The band is currently in a small semi-circle around Selwyn, and no one looks eager to leave, so Jaime approaches Varys, his thumbs tucked in his pockets. 

“Let's talk outside,” Jaime tells him. 

“Don't wish to give up your game?” Varys asks with a sly smile. 

“Not on your schedule, no.” Jaime gestures to the door, and Varys inclines his head and precedes him out the door. It's warm outside, the moon three-quarters full. A truck rumbles down the road and then it's quiet again. This time of night, there are much fewer cars. 

“So, you know who I am,” Jaime says, facing Varys a short distance away from the front door. They're right at the edge of the light. 

“Indeed. And so will everyone else as soon as you take your music more public. You can't really think you'll get away with being 'Colt Thunder' if some label signs you?”

“No, I don't,” Jaime says, scratching the back of his neck. “But I don't want to use my name to get my foot in the door, either.” 

Varys looks unimpressed. “Why not? What good does it do you to hide it? Surely you've used your name in your business deals.” Jaime shoots Varys a wary look and the other man calmly folds his hands over his stomach, covering the dangling ends of his bolo tie. “I do my research, Jaime. Especially on people who are hiding certain parts of their pasts. If I sign you, you become an investment, and I want to know as much about my investment as your father does about his own.” 

“Perhaps if you can't understand why I don't want to succeed just because of who I am, you aren't the right manager for me.” 

“Perhaps,” Varys admits. “Or perhaps you need someone who will disabuse you of your idealistic approach to the industry. Which, frankly, surprises me, given how your last experience ended.” 

“That's exactly why I'm being careful this time,” he says sharply. “I don't think this is going to work out, Mr. Varys.” Jaime starts for the door when Varys holds up a hand to stop him. 

Varys pulls another card out of his shirt pocket. “Don't make a decision tonight,” he says, cajoling. “You were obviously unprepared for my approach, which was a mistake on my part. I think we could work out a mutually agreeable partnership, Jaime. One in which we both get everything we want.” 

“What do you want?” Jaime asks suspiciously. 

“To make a lot of money, of course, by helping you sell your music.” 

Jaime's stomach clenches unpleasantly, though there is a strange sense of relief that at least Varys isn't trying to peddle him a lie. “I already have one of those,” he says indicating the card. 

Varys looks unperturbed as he presses it against Jaime's chest. “Take another one. I have plenty.” 

“Would you be this pushy if I weren't Jaime Lannister?” he asks, taking the card. 

Varys shrugs. “Who can say? I've suspected since I first saw you take the stage in Nashville. You're very good, and so is your story.” 

“I'm not going to sell my story just to make a few bucks. I want to make music, Mr. Varys, not work the talk show circuit.” 

The other man purses his lips, and Jaime shifts uncomfortably under his silent judgment. “You should consider very carefully what you want and what it is you _are_ willing to sell in order to achieve it. I won't be the last person who recognizes you, and I won't be the last person to ask you to use it either. If you can't stomach any of it, perhaps this,” he indicates Selwyn's with a nod of his head, “is the only place for you. Think carefully.” Varys inhales deeply and then exhales, smiling. “I look forward to hearing from you, Jaime.” 

Jaime watches him move in an unhurried glide across the gravel lot to a simple black Cadillac, get in, and drive away. He stares down at the business card, and then up at Selwyn's. There's a complicated knot of wants in his head, and he's not sure where to find the end of it to unravel them. The lingering trauma of his youth, the dreams he'd thought he'd given up on, his own inner drive to do better – be better – than everyone expects. The music, always at the center of it. But now Brienne is there, too, much warmer than her pale skin and serious demeanor suggests, a complication that wraps around all of it. Jaime's not sure what path his career is going to take, but he knows he wants to make sure there's space for her in it. 

With a sigh, he shoves the card in his pocket and heads back inside. He's got one more task before he can set all this aside for the night and just enjoy Brienne. 

The small group looks up with identically expectant faces as soon as Jaime enters. 

“So?” Margaery says first, and it's clear that she's trying to be collected, but she's nearly quivering with hungry curiosity. “What did the manager say?” 

“Nothing, yet. We just talked. I'm supposed to call him back.” 

“That seems good,” Brienne says cautiously, and Jaime shrugs. 

“We'll see.” She frowns a little, and Jaime suspects that's not going to be the last of her questions about it tonight. He turns to the band, though, to deal with them first. 

These three have hitched their wagons to his so far, and they've talked about the demo and beyond in the downtime between shows. He'd like to bring them along whenever he gets signed, but they deserve to know who they're throwing their lot in with before they do. 

“There is one thing,” Jaime tells them. “I'm sure it's fairly obvious Colt isn't my actual name, but y'all should know, before we take this working relationship any further that, uh.” This has not gotten any easier since he'd told Brienne who he was. “My real name is Jaime Lannister.” 

Sandor and Ilyn both look completely unimpressed by this revelation. Margaery narrows her eyes at him. 

“You mean, 'Mama, Don't Go' Jaime Lannister?” 

He nods. “The same.” 

Margaery smacks him on the shoulder. “Fuck off. Do you know how much that song makes me cry?” 

Jaime laughs a little and shrugs. “I have a sense, yes.” He'd cried recording it, nine years old and still intensely grieving his mother, though she'd been gone a year. It's an old wound, and well-scarred-over, but he finds it impossible to listen to the song even now. The first notes transport him all too vividly back to that lonely booth. “I just thought you should all know, in case that changes whether you want to work together or not.” 

“You still an addict?” Sandor asks, and Jaime gives him a dry look while Selwyn coughs off to the side. 

“Never was,” Jaime tells both of them. “That was just the tabloids.” 

Sandor grunts. “Then I don't give a shit if you were Elvis before. I'm playing with you now, not whoever the fuck you were.” Ilyn nods in silent agreement. 

Jaime's oddly touched, though he knows better than to let Sandor know that. “Margaery?” Jaime asks instead. 

“You gonna try to stay Colt Thunder if you get signed?”

“It seems unlikely I could, so, no. Varys already guessed who I was, and he won't be the last.” Brienne gasps softly. “I'll have to play under my real name, given everything.” 

“You'd be an idiot to try otherwise,” Margaery tells him. “And I don't play with idiots. So I'm in.” 

“All right,” Jaime says. “It's settled then?” 

The three of them nod and it's all so simply accepted that he half-expects another shoe to drop. But instead they pack up their gear and wish everyone good night and leave, along with Jon. 

Selwyn clears his throat once it's just the three of them. “I enjoyed your show tonight,” he says. “Nice to hear how much you've grown. We had your album playing on repeat around the house when Brienne was young.” She flushes and Jaime gives her a small, delighted grin. 

“So I've heard,” he says, not wanting to needle her _too_ much. At least, not in front of her father. 

“I suppose my daughter is glaring at me now,” Selywn says. 

“A little,” Jaime says on a laugh. 

“Then that's my cue.” He walks up to Jaime, and although his face is friendly, Jaime has to fight the urge to step back. He's just gotten used to Brienne being taller than him; Selwyn being taller than that is still shocking. “It's nice to meet you, Jaime. I hope you won't be a stranger.”

Jaime shakes the other man's hand, smiling a little. “I don't intend to be.”

“Good.” Brienne has quietly walked nearer, and Selwyn turns and kisses her on the side of her head. “You should bring him to dinner some night.”

“It's a long drive out here on a weekday,” she says, rather pointedly Jaime thinks.

“I don't mind,” Jaime tells her, and she looks hopeful.

Selwyn nods a little, studying Jaime. “Seems Brienne was right about you,” he muses. Brienne's cheeks go pink; he'll have to ask her what Selwyn meant later.

Then Selwyn is gone, too, and Jaime feels the last of his unease drain away, now that it's just him, and Brienne, and the energy between them, the quiet melody he always hears when she's nearby.

“Quite an evening,” Jaime says first, and she snorts. 

“Could have been worse – Galladon was supposed to show up, too.” 

Jaime's very aware of the bitter shadows hiding around those words; he's felt the same towards his own brother time and again. “Nothing serious happened, I hope?” 

“Of course not,” she says and her voice is all edge. Jaime tangles his fingers with hers, rubbing his thumb across her palm. Brienne sighs. “I should stop hoping he'll come around.”

“No, you shouldn't.” He kisses her knuckles. “He should start holding up his end.” 

“Tell me about Varys,” she says. It's an overt subject change, but Jaime goes along with it.

“He said he wants me to call him back and give him my answer.” 

“Your answer? Wait, you mean--”

“He wants to sign me.”

“Jaime!” She squeezes his hand. “That's what you were waiting for.”

“Not like this.” He lets her go to collect his guitar case from the stage. “He knows who I am. He has since Nashville.” 

Brienne watches him from the floor. “You think that's why he wants to sign you?”

“He told me as much.” Jaime runs his hand over the beat-up vinyl of his case. He's had it since he was a teenager, when – drunk and furious at the world – he'd purchased it in a pawn shop like he'd been daring himself to dream again. It's taken a lot of years to accept that dare. “I'm not going to ride Jaime Lannister's coattails to success.” 

“They're literally your own coattails,” Brienne says, her voice gentle. “As soon as you sign with anyone, you're going to have to deal with it. I know you want to be respected for who you are now, but you can't outrun that boy forever.” 

“I'm not gonna push him to the forefront either.” 

“You don't have to. But Varys knowing who you are doesn't mean he doesn't value what you're doing.” 

Jaime raps his knuckles against the guitar case, a dull thud of sound. “I just wanted to make my own way. I'm not like you, Brienne.” 

“What does that mean?” she asks, and Jaime turns to face her, finds her rigid, her hands pressed flat at her sides. 

“This isn't like you and the bar. Your whole life is here. My life has been everything except for those few years I was famous, but that's where everyone wants me to live.”

“You're so sure,” she says, and there's a tight thread in her voice that makes him uneasy. “So certain that you can't navigate what was and what might be. And yet that's what you chided me for not a week ago.”

“I didn't chide you,” he snaps. “I'm trying to help you break free.”

“I don't want to break free. I'm not like you, either. I don't need to slough off every last part of my history to feel seen.” 

“So what would you do, then, if you were me? Play a round of Little Jaime songs, let some label sign me and put me into the same outfits I wore when I was ten as some sort of hat-tip to my legacy?”

“I'd stop getting so defensive about it, for one,” she says, folding her arms over her chest. 

He laughs at that, loud and unpleasant as a wrong note. “ _You_ would be less defensive? You don't know yourself as well as you think.” 

She frowns at him. “I know myself well enough not to have to run into the spotlight to see it.”

Jaime steps down from the stage, his head tilted. “You think I'm doing this because of my ego.” 

Her chin tips up. “I think some of it, yeah.” 

“Amazing there's room in the bed with you and me and my pride.” 

Brienne glares at him. “You said it, not me.” 

“One of us had to, since you seem to hate telling me what you think.” 

She breathes deep, then straightens, tall and imposing. “Maybe we should just call it a night.” 

“Is this gonna be your standard technique when we fight? You avoid me until I get too pissed off to let it go?” 

“Fine,” she says between clenched teeth. “You wanna fight?”

“No!” He rubs his palm hard across his forehead. “I want to not talk about this at all.” 

“Is that _your_ technique? We just pretend everything's gonna be fine until it isn't?” 

Belle whines low from the back room door and Jaime looks over at her. Her eyes are worried, though her tail thumps hesitantly against the wood when she notices him watching. 

“This isn't our best night,” he sighs, and Brienne gives a tentative huff of agreement. “I'll go if you want me to, but not with this between us.” 

“I don't want you to go,” she says quietly. 

When he looks back at Brienne, he can see by the soft line of her shoulders that the fight has left her. Jaime exhales in relief. He's never been good at romantic relationships, and even as new as this one is, it means more than any he's had before. 

“Why don't we at least get out of the bar?” he suggests. “It's not doing either of us any favors tonight.” 

She agrees, getting her things, and locks the building up while Jaime walks Belle around outside to relieve herself before the drive. 

They get into Brienne's truck with a shared look, and although Belle is sitting between them, it's not the dog's fault that this drive feels so much more tentative, that the space separating them feels longer than the arm span Jaime knows he can reach Brienne with. Brienne turns on the radio and Jaime stares out at the night and tries to leave all his tension and nerves behind them in the dark. 

The truck rumbles across gravel and grass when Brienne parks in front of her house. This time, Jaime gets out the passenger side, taking Belle and his guitar case with him. He hovers near as Brienne opens her front door, blinks when she flicks on the light in the living room. 

“I figure you can just leave her out here,” she says, and Belle heads straight for the couch, jumping up and curling into a ball as though Brienne's invited her. 

“She doesn't have very good manners,” Jaime says, but Brienne's smiling. 

“It's fine. I'm glad she's comfortable.” She turns to Jaime, and tentatively brushes her fingers across his chest. “I don't want it to be uncomfortable between _us_ ,” she says. “I've really been looking forward to this all week.” 

“We're just figuring things out,” he says with a certainty that surprises even himself. “Everybody argues sometimes.” 

“We've only been together a couple of weeks.” 

“Not true. We've been together for months.” She gives him a disbelieving look and he steps into her space, sliding his arms around her waist. She links her hands behind his neck, and he can feel her melt into his embrace in a way that soothes his nerves and ignites his blood. “You just refuse to accept all those concerts were dates.” 

“They weren't,” she protests, but she's clearly fighting a smile. “We were working.” 

Jaime raises his brows. “You have a very interesting definition of work, Barkeep.” He presses a kiss to the side of her neck, and she pulls his hat off and tosses it somewhere behind him, before her lips nibble at his earlobe, making Jaime shiver. “Some might say a whimsical definition.” 

“There it is,” she says, her breath hot against his ear. “I was hoping you weren't saving your word for the sex.” 

“I'm hoping neither one of us will be able to speak by then,” he says, mouthing at the long line of her shoulder as he tugs her flannel top off. 

Brienne's hands slide down to his belt buckle. “I bet I can make you speechless first.” 

Jaime's pretty sure she can, too. He glances over at Belle, who's unwound to rest her head on the arm of the couch, watching them. Her brown eyes are very awake. “Can we take this into the bedroom?” he asks Brienne as she starts undoing his belt. “I don't really want an audience.” 

She pulls back, confused, until she follows Jaime's pointed stare, and then she bursts into laughter. “God, yeah, that feels wrong. Come on.” 

Once they're in Brienne's room with the door closed, she pulls Jaime close first, her hands cupping his head as she kisses him, deep and commanding, like she's claiming him for her own. The idea of it – of being Brienne's, at her hungry whims – makes him fully erect in an instant. 

When she breaks the kiss he tries to follow, and she presses her palm against his chest to still him. He obeys at once, and her eyes are the bright blue flame of a pilot light that he's desperate to see ignite. Brienne tugs at his shirt, pulling it up and off of him, then rubs her calloused hand down the line of hair to his waist while he waits, already trembling. 

“Are you okay with this?” she asks and he nods eagerly. 

“Fuck yes. Tell me what you want me to do. Anything.” She flushes red, a waterfall down her cheeks and chin and chest. _Too needy_ , he worries. It had been that need that had scared her away the first time, but she looks interested now. 

“You know,” she murmurs. 

Jaime's mouth twitches into an encouraging smile. Brienne is wrapped up in caution and restraint, quick to push her own wants aside. He wants her to trust him enough to unwrap herself for him, if only for a night. “Show me. Make me speechless, Brienne.” 

Brienne licks her lips and gifts him with her agreement. With deliberate care, she finishes undoing his belt, the button of his jeans, tugs his zipper down while his chest expands on his long inhale and they stare at each other the entire time. 

“Take these off,” she says, with a simple authority that thunders through him, and he immediately shimmies out of his boots and jeans and throws them to the side. He drags his thumb under the band of his black boxer-briefs, before letting his hands fall to his sides. 

Brienne looks up at him sharply. “Why did you stop?”

“You only asked for the pants.” 

“Are you really going to make me tell you all of it?”

She looks so annoyed he kisses her. “Yes,” he tells her. “Tonight, I'm yours to command.” 

“What if I command you to do whatever you want?” she asks archly, like she's gotten one up on him. His heart feels too heavy in his chest. 

“Well,” he says. “Then we're in a catch-22, because what I want is for you to order me around.” 

Brienne rubs the heel of her palm along the length of his cock, and Jaime shudders in pleasure. “Okay, cowboy, then I want you to get naked. Everything off.”

“Better,” he tells her, kissing her quickly before he bends to take off his socks with haste. But when he stands again, he drags his underwear off slowly, easing them down until just the tip of his cock is visible, and her eyes are riveted, absorbing every centimeter of his progress. Jaime lazily slides them further, and Brienne bites her lip. By the time he's got them off and pooled at his feet, she's panting and he's already leaking, and he's not sure he'll last when he does finally get to be inside her. 

“Now what?” he asks in a rough voice. 

Brienne's gaze travels from his head to his feet and back again. He takes back every bad thought he's had about being ogled when her pink lips part on an appreciative sigh. She's in just her tank-top and jeans, and the muscles of her arms flex under her smooth, freckled skin when she reaches out and circles her fingers around his wrist, then moves his hand to his cock. “Can you--?” she breathes, and he nods wordlessly. 

Jaime wraps his fingers around his own length, hissing a little at the touch when he's already so sensitive, and Brienne's hand blankets the top of his as he starts to stroke himself. She doesn't direct him at first, so he slows, and her hand squeezes his in response, moving it, the pressure of her touch as he touches himself spurring him faster, all the while keeping those electric eyes on his. She's showing him what to do, leading him readily, and soon he feels a tightening in his groin.

“I'm getting close,” he warns her, and her grip tightens around his hand, stilling it with devastating ease. 

They're both breathing hard already, filling the quiet of the room. When Brienne drags his hand to her own jeans, it's louder than any spoken direction. 

He fumbles with her belt and pants for a moment, opens them enough to discover she's not wearing any underwear underneath. 

“Oh, god,” Jaime moans. He's having trouble breathing steadily, and he's aching with the desire to feel her wet against his fingers and his tongue. 

“I told you I was looking forward to this,” she says and he hasn't been good at taking direction since he was a kid, but he waits for her to do or say more, anticipation snaking through him. When they just stand there like that, his fingers gripping the edge of her jeans, he can't stay quiet. 

“Show me what you want,” he nearly begs her. 

Her shoulders are capped with a flush, a snowy mountain in sunrise, and he watches them rise and fall with her deep breath. She guides his hand into her pants, slides his fingers in the too-tight space between her clothes and her cunt and presses them between her slippery folds. He curves his fingers upward into her heat and she gasps. 

“My jeans,” she whines, tugging at them with her free hand. 

“Done,” he says, dropping to both knees at her feet and sliding his hands up the worn fabric loose around her calves and then tight around her ass and he pulls her close to press his lips to the soft skin and faint smattering of freckles exposed by her open zipper. She trembles against his mouth. 

Jaime fights his own urgency and slowly tugs her jeans down over her hips, unveiling the expanse of her thick thighs, bunched with tension, and then off entirely. He kisses her along the line of blonde, wiry hair as he does, feathery touches over and over, until she's rolling her pelvis towards him, searching for more. 

He's about to ask what she wants when she widens her legs, grabs his head, and directs him to her cunt with a fierce power that makes him groan deep in his chest in willing surrender. Her scent fills him, sweat and the soft musk of her, her hairs tickling his nose, and Jaime laps in long, eager stripes until she's whimpering above him, until her legs weaken and he wraps his hands around the back of her thighs to give her strength. She's holding him tight against her body, her fingers wrapped in his hair in almost painful curls as he sucks and licks and takes her clit gently in his teeth until she's rigid, crying out, pouring her release against his hungry mouth. 

Jaime keeps his face buried against her, working her through the aftershocks until she tugs him back by his hair, pulling his neck arched and taut so he can look up at her from where he's kneeling. He grins, wet-faced and ravenous with need as she stares back from so far away, sweat beading at her temples. Her hair's a mess and her lips are wide and round and her eyes are dark with lust. She looks like she's slain a dragon and now she's come to demand her prize. She's breathtaking. 

“Come here,” he says, unable to stay in line any longer. Brienne bends down and kisses him, wild and open-mouthed, and when he tugs her down into his lap, she mercifully lets him, until she's slick against his cock, their arms wrapping around each other as she rubs against him wet and ready. 

“Condom?” he asks, twisting his hands into the back of her tank-top to hold the muscled curve of her body in place for a moment. His arms are overflowing with Brienne, taut and burning against his skin. Her scent is all over him and he nuzzles into her neck to inhale more, until his lungs are filled with her, too.

“Just pull out,” she orders him, kissing his cheeks and jaw and mouth frantically, squirming in his grip and not helping his self-restraint at all. 

Jaime tries to say something but he's too busy holding onto his ragged control and it comes out as an inarticulate moan. It's the work of a moment to tilt down and then press his cock against her entrance, to slip into her soaking arousal and dig his fingers into her hips as she clenches around him. Jaime can barely think already, and the rolling movement of her body and the silky feel of her cunt along his tender skin is driving him quickly to mindless rutting. 

He looks down, watches her sliding almost all the way off and then back again until there's no space between them, and he wraps her tight in his embrace, focusing on the feel of her thighs slick against his, of the cotton of her shirt rubbing against his nipples, of the sweet smell of her breath as she cries out softly when he rocks deeper. 

This is what _he_ wants, beyond fans and fame and fortune, and it surges to his tongue to tell her, but he holds it back – for once – and the fight to keep from exposing his feelings helps him cling to the thin ledge of control, so that when he starts to let go he has time to grasp her ass and pull out of her, to come hard in his own grip and against her stomach while she murmurs encouragement in his ear and his vision goes white. Her big hand rubs in long strokes down his side as he jerks and trembles to completion in her arms. 

They're sweaty and limp against each other on her floor when Jaime blinks away the haze and looks at the mess in their laps. His knees hurt, and Brienne is heavy straddling his thighs, and he's happy. He kisses the curve of her jaw. 

“Can we clean up and move to the bed?” he softly asks. 

“That sounds good.” They both groan as they stand, and Brienne looks down at her tank-top before pulling it off, so that they're both naked. Jaime's heart swells when she gives him a shy smile. 

A few minutes later they're cuddled together in her bed. She's got different fancy sheets today, and Jaime tucks them up and under their arms. 

“We're not just hiding problems with sex, are we?” she asks, and though he thinks she's joking, there's just enough uncertainty underneath that he kisses her forehead. 

“No.” He considers it. “Well, maybe a little.” 

Brienne lifts up on one elbow to search his face. It's dark in her bedroom, but he can make out the concerned furrow of her brow well enough from this close. “I'm sorry I said that about your ego. It's only... I understand wanting to make your own way, even if the person you're separating from is yourself. What I don't understand is why you refuse to even acknowledge your past, let alone try to use what you can so someone else doesn't use it for you.” 

A series of flippant answers leap immediately to mind: because of his bad hair, because his balls dropped, because a ten-year-old should never be a sex symbol. But Brienne deserves better than that, so instead he says, “Because it hurts too much when I think about it.” 

“Oh,” she says quietly. She traces the line of his jaw, and then kisses him with a gentleness that undoes him. “I'm sorry.” 

“It's all right,” he says thickly. “I know your past gives you strength, but mine... I just want to forget it.” 

Brienne rubs her hand in slow circles over his chest. “You won't be able to hide from it forever.” 

“I know. But I can for now, and that's enough.” He's not sure what else to say, if there even is anything else he could. “There is one thing,” he murmurs, and she tilts her head to look at him, curious. “Where exactly on your wall would the poster of me have been?” 

She bursts out in a fit of embarrassed laughter and he beams at her. “It would have been over my headboard,” she admits, pointing at the wall above their heads. 

“Keeping watch over you at night. Very romantic.” 

“I wish Gal had never told you that.” 

He gives her a loud, smacking kiss on the cheek. “What would ten-year old Brienne say if she knew someday she'd be having sex with her idol?”

“That she didn't realize Dolly swung that way.” 

Jaime snorts, tickling her side. “I meant me.” 

“Probably 'ew,' because she was ten and not really into sex yet,” Brienne says, stifling her laughter. 

“Mm.” Jaime nuzzles into her hair. “I guess some changes are good.” 

They're both laughing when he drags the covers over their heads to prove it.


	16. Gonna let the light shine in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even if she can't convince Jaime to call Varys back, that won't be the last of the interested parties. There will be someone who will see the potential, that won't scare Jaime away, and then his career will begin, and mornings like this will be harder to come by. She presses a fist to her sternum to ease the ache. 
> 
> But he promised to come back, and if she wants to be with him – which she does, with an intensity that unsettles her – her only choice is to trust that he will, so she just soaks in the sight of him in her bed before heading to the bathroom.

Brienne wakes the next morning with her arm around a warm, fuzzy body. When she opens her eyes, Belle's stretched out in-between her and Jaime, her head shoved between their pillows. She's got her paws pressed into Jaime's bare back, and he's curled on the edge of the mattress. Brienne lifts her arm and Belle groans loudly, flopping her head back to lick Brienne's chin. 

“You have morning breath,” she whispers, and Belle licks her again. 

Brienne smothers a laugh and slides carefully out of bed, shivering when the air hits her skin. She pulls on an old pair of sweats and a t-shirt and examines the picture before her: the man barely covered by the sheets left to him and the dog who's hoarding the rest. With daylight already beaming inside, the room is bathed in warmth and golden light, swirling like a vortex around the pair who've stolen her bed. It's enough to make Brienne's chest constrict.

Even if she can't convince Jaime to call Varys back, that won't be the last of the interested parties. There will be someone who will see the potential, that won't scare Jaime away, and then his career will begin, and mornings like this will be harder to come by. She presses a fist to her sternum to ease the ache. 

But he promised to come back, and if she wants to be with him – which she does, with an intensity that unsettles her – her only choice is to trust that he will, so she just soaks in the sight of him in her bed before heading to the bathroom. 

Brienne's examining her stubbornly empty fridge when Jaime pads out into the living room. She pokes her head over the refrigerator door to look at him through the open archway. He's at least pulled on his underwear, though that only makes her think of last night. 

“Mornin',” he says, spotting her. He gives her a lazy smile that makes her insides quiver. “I hope my dog didn't force you out of bed. I wanted to wake you up.” 

“It's fine. You okay with scrambled eggs and toast?” 

“I'm fine with whatever you're offering,” he says and she grins a little at his tone. 

“My yard isn't fully fenced, so you should put on some clothes and take Belle out while I get this together.” 

“Or,” Jaime says, ambling into the kitchen. It's hard not to stare at his chest, or his thighs, or the bulge in his fitted underwear. “I could help you cook.” He comes up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and curving his chest to her back. He's tall enough to rest his chin on her shoulder, even in bare feet; broad enough that he covers her back so she feels warm all over. They fit well, in so many ways. The ache in her chest deepens. 

“Somehow I think very little cooking would happen,” she murmurs. Her stomach growls and Jaime chuckles in her ear. 

“Never let it be said I stood between a woman and her breakfast.” He brushes aside her hair to kiss the back of her neck before letting her go. 

While she's gathering what she needs, he and Belle come back through the kitchen and he's in his jeans and t-shirt again, but no less tempting, especially when he brushes his hand across her ass as he walks past. By the time the two of them return, she's in the midst of cooking and he leaves her alone, leading Belle into the living room. 

Brienne's buttering the toast when she hears the first strains of his guitar filtering in. She finishes scraping her knife across the bread before setting it down and walking quietly to the archway. Jaime's on the couch, his guitar held tight against his body because Belle has her head resting on his knee, her nose pressed to the wood of the instrument. He's playing a classic – Ray Charles' “You Don't Know Me” – crooning softly to Belle as she watches him with her big brown eyes. 

Jaime's voice is gravelly this morning, but sweet under the rough surface, and his hands move with quiet confidence through the chords. It's clearly something they've done before, and when the last notes sound, Belle's tail thumps hard against the cushions and Brienne thinks she'd be doing the same if she had a tail, too. 

“If your mini-concert is done, breakfast is ready,” she says. 

He looks up at her and smiles, unbothered by the audience. “She loves the standards,” he explains, rubbing his hand over Belle's head. 

“A dog of excellent taste. Come on. I made an egg for her, too.”

They're halfway through breakfast when Jaime rubs his bare toes over hers under the table. “So what's all this so-called 'bar stuff' you've been up to?” 

Brienne finishes chewing and considers how much to tell him. Though she wants so much to share the entirety of this burden with him, to have him help her bear it, it's hers and her family's and it's unfair to ask that of him. They've only just started dating, really, no matter how much all her spaces seem brighter when he's near. She doesn't want to hide it, but she doesn't want to worry him either, and Jaime had been right those weeks ago: she knows him, regardless of how much time they've actually spent together. And she knows that she wants him to take his next step unimpeded by that worry, to choose what's best for his career, not for the bar. 

She also very much doesn't want to start crying, and she can already feel it burning in her throat. 

“I discovered that Selwyn's is having some... money issues.”

There's a small ridge between Jaime's brows and she focuses on it so she doesn't have to meet his concerned stare head-on. “I suspected, based on how your dad acted last night. How bad is it?”

“We're not bankrupt,” she says. It's the truth, technically.

“That leaves an awful lot of wiggle room. Is there anything I can do? I have contacts, money--”

“No,” she says, quick and sharp, and then forces herself to gentle her tone. “No, thank you. Dad and I spent this week working on a plan and we don't want investors.” 

Jaime sets his fork down. “I'm not an investor, Brienne.” 

“If you gave us money for the bar, you would be.” 

“I just want to help you,” he says quietly. “That's all this is.” 

“I know that's all you intend.” She reaches across her small table and covers his hand. “But I'm not going to let money come between us. The bar is my problem, and my dad's. One we can handle. I want to keep you separate from it, as much as I can. I want to keep you for me,” she admits. 

He turns his hand palm up, curving his fingers around her wrist. “All right,” he says, though he's still frowning. “But if you need _anything_ \--”

“I know,” she tells him again, smiling a little. “For now just having you here is enough.” 

He picks up his fork again. “So what's your plan?”

“Expanding our customer base and attracting new talent. We're too far from Nashville to be a real player in the established performance space, but there's a lot of hungry musicians who'd like somewhere to play where they might get heard.” 

“Even ones with stripper names.” 

Brienne chuckles. “Even them. We just have to convince them Selwyn's is the place to do that. Which means we need a steadier crowd, too.”

“Isn't your brother in marketing? Why don't you get his help?” 

She takes another sip of coffee. “We can do this without him.”

“Mm,” Jaime says, shoveling more eggs into his mouth. She glares at him and he shrugs. “I didn't say anything,” he mumbles around the food. 

“You hummed pointedly.” 

He swallows and lifts an eyebrow. “Seems silly not to ask him for some help, is all.” 

“We don't need it,” she says firmly. Her dad had suggested the same thing, and she'd responded the same way. Galladon has been happy to let the bar sink or swim; she's not going to go crawling to him to beg for a bucket. “We can do this. _I_ can do this.” 

“I don't doubt you can. Don't discount help to make it easier, though. Might be worth the price of a little pride.” 

“That sounds like good advice someone else at this table might take,” she says, taking a bite of toast. Jaime rolls his eyes and nudges her leg again with his foot. 

“Finish your breakfast,” he says, pointing at her still half-full plate. “We don't have all that long until you have to go back to work and I want to make the most of it.” 

“I have to do the dishes first,” she teases him. 

“You're gonna be lucky if I let you finish your breakfast.” 

“ _Let_ me?” She presses her palm to her chest in feigned shock. “What happened to wanting to be ordered around?” 

“Oh, I'm still interested in that, too.” He shifts into the chair next to hers, leaning into her space to whisper in her ear. “Maybe I just want you to have to restrain me this time.” 

Brienne can barely look at him when he's like this, his eyes flashing with humor and desire, the line of his jaw highlighted by the sun. Her whole body is tense with sudden need. “What do you expect me to use – your belt?” she manages to say and Jaime inhales sharply, the intense want on his face ricocheting through her, lighting up every part of her where it touches. 

“Alright, you're done,” he says, standing and tugging at her hand. She rises willingly, caught mid-laugh when he bends down, drops into her torso, and then hefts her up with a grunt, draping her over his shoulder. 

“Jaime!” she shouts, grabbing at his back. Belle scrambles up, barking happily, from where she'd been hiding underneath the table hoping for scraps. “What are you doing?”

“Taking you to bed.”

“I'm too heavy!”

He's making good time through her short hallway, Belle still yipping excitedly behind them. “Clearly you're not.”

“I didn't finish breakfast!”

“Good, then you won't be too full.” He kicks open her partially closed bedroom door and she hates how turned on she is by his dumb macho behavior. When he slams it shut behind them again, Belle goes quiet in the hallway. Brienne expects to find her plate cleaned when they emerge. 

“You can put me down now,” she tells him, trying to salvage what's left of her dignity. 

“Yes, ma'am.” He plops her down onto the bed and stands there, legs spread, chest heaving, looking entirely too proud of himself. “Isn't that better than walking all that way?” 

Brienne laughs, and shakes her head. “Your shoulder's kind of bony.” 

“You don't have to be rude,” he grumbles, kneeling at her feet. It's swift, his change from prideful to tender, the way he rubs his hands along the fabric of her sweats and looks up at her like she's remarkable. 

Jaime's cheeks are flushed, eyes burning; he's radiant with longing. Brienne traces her fingertips along the arch of his cheekbones, the lines of his face, the bristle of his stubble. He makes it so easy to be swept away, a gale-force wind where she's a deeply-rooted tree. And her tree is crumbling at the base right now, while he's gathering speed. 

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, studying her with gentle curiosity.

“About what comes next,” she tells him truthfully. “About you signing with Varys.” He sighs and she cups her palms around his jaw. “You could reach so many more people with your music, if you did.”

“I'm not gonna change anybody's life, Brienne.” 

“You changed mine.” 

The green of his eyes warms, a forest in summer. “Well,” he says roughly. “I'd get tired awfully quick if I had sex with all my fans.” 

Brienne purses her lips, annoyed. “You think this is just about sex?” 

“No,” Jaime says quietly. He takes her hands in his, running his thumbs over her knuckles. “Of course not.” He follows his thumb with his lips, kissing each bump and ridge of her hand, nipping at the pad of her own thumb and she trembles when he sucks it into the heat of his mouth, wrapping his tongue around it. 

“Promise me you'll consider it,” she breathes, and he huffs, grinning a little around her thumb before he releases her. 

“If I say yes, will you let me finish seducing you?” 

“Scout's honor,” she says, making the Girl Scout sign. 

“Were you really a Girl Scout?” he asks, his voice high with delight. 

“I was,” she says, narrowing her eyes at him. 

“Then when the time comes, you should be _excellent_ at tying knots.” He gives her a sharp smile. 

Brienne shivers and he hooks his fingers into the band of her pants; she lifts her hips to let him pull them off. 

“What about you?” she asks, breathless as he kisses from her knee up her thigh. “Boy Scout?” 

“Tried, but I got kicked out,” he says, his lips hovering near where she's urgent for him. “They said I was too mouthy.” 

She moans, but it's not because of his terrible joke.

* * *

After a short nap, Jaime sits up in Brienne's bed while she sleeps on next to him. Her breathing is steady, and she's all tangled in the sheets, their wine color even darker against her pale skin. He almost reaches out to brush the sweaty tendrils of hair from her face, but he doesn't want to wake her. Instead he reaches for his jeans, and pulls the business card out of them, staring at the small rectangle. 

It's not the risk that's holding Jaime back. He's not afraid of failure, exactly. He _is_ afraid of failing publicly, again. Of the expectation that he will. But even that isn't what's really stopping him. 

It's success that scares him more. He'd been successful before, when he was too young to control it, and the tsunami had dragged him so deeply under he's only now gotten his breath back. He doesn't want to lose the man he's become, especially not to the image of the boy he was. There will be questions about what happened all those years ago, what's happened in all the years in between. No matter Brienne's obstinate belief in him, other people will still think of him only as that boy. Some of them will want to see him fail because of that. It's a lot to fight all at once, and it's been so easy to just play at Selwyn's and be here with Brienne that he can almost believe it could go on this way and they'd all be happy. 

Except Brienne's also not wrong that there's something more he's missing. The fame and money don't attract him, but to play the music he's written in front of bigger crowds, the chance that maybe he can rewrite his legacy... Jaime stares at the small card in his fingers, the plain black type. His dreams might be in those simple letters. 

Brienne stirs behind him, and her hands slide up and over his shoulders, knead at the tight muscles. Some of his dreams, he amends. 

“He wants to sign me to make money,” Jaime tells her. 

She kisses the back of his neck. “That's not entirely surprising. What do you want from him?”

“Someone who believes in me.” 

“Well, I'm not a manager, but I believe in you.” She kisses him again, tenderly, and he briefly shuts his eyes, her words sweeping through him in a soothing wave.

“If I do this,” Jaime says quietly, “things will change.” 

“Aren't I the one who said that?” 

He chuckles a little and she hooks her chin on his shoulder, their cheeks pressed together. 

“You can pinky promise me,” she tells him. 

“What am I promising?”

“That you'll come back.” He tilts his head a little, trying to look at her, but she doesn't budge. “It's not you going on tour that worries me. It's that once you walk out, you'll never come back.” 

“Brienne.” Jaime shifts around so he's facing her. She's got the sheet wrapped around her torso, and her eyes are so blue they take his breath away. “I'll always come back to you.” 

The words fall between them, weighty and too large and Jaime isn't even sure where his bone-deep certainty about Brienne comes from, but it feels true so he doesn't try to take it back. She doesn't try to bat it away, either; she only looks down at the bed, her pale skin faintly red. 

“Pinky promise,” she finally says, holding up hers. 

Jaime wraps his pinky around her own, keeping his expression serious. “Pinky promise.” 

“God will make sure your album flops if you break this,” she says solemnly, but her eyes are crinkled with growing joy. Jaime tugs her nearer by their joined pinkies, and kisses her hard. 

“I would deserve it,” he tells her. “You think Belle left any of the food for us?”

“She's your dog; what do you think?”

He shakes his head. “Not a crumb. Come on, let me buy you some pie.” 

“What about Belle?”

“I'll buy her some pie, too. She loves pumpkin.” 

Brienne's still smiling when she grabs her nearby shirt and underwear, pulls them on while Jaime watches. 

“Hey,” he says, still sitting on the edge of the bed. Brienne looks over, curious and at ease, and her presence sings through him: the rhythm of her breathing, the melody of her voice, the drumbeat of his heart in counterpoint. Jaime licks his suddenly dry lips. “You believe me, right?” 

Brienne bunches the ends of her shirt in her hands, rubbing the fabric between her fingertips. “I do,” she says. “That's why we're here.” 

He exhales slowly. “Good. That's good. And you'll be here when I get back?”

“Jaime.” Her brow furrows, and she comes around the bed to stand in front of him, her fingers running like a gentle breeze through his hair. “Of course I'll be here.” 

“I don't want you to feel like you're stuck waiting for me. That's not-- I want us to be equal, and equally willing.” 

“I want that, too. We'll make it work, as long as we both keep that in mind,” she promises, and it's impossible to not believe in her. In them. 

“Then I'll call Varys back after lunch,” he says, and her fingers tighten briefly in his hair, before she smooths it back to kiss his forehead. 

“Good. It's time for both of us to reach for what we want.” 

He tugs her into him, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face against her stomach. _You are what I want_. She presses her palms flat and hot against his back, pulling him tighter, and he hopes she feels the same.

* * *

Wednesday night a little over a week later, Jaime hovers above the sound engineer as the last track on his demo tape fades into silence. 

“What do you think?” the engineer – a skinny young man named Jojen – asks. 

“I think it's done,” Jaime says, and Margaery lets out a whoop behind Jaime that makes him jump. “I'm gonna assume that's agreement,” he says and she grins wide at him. 

“Hell yes it is. Get that tape off to the manager.” 

“I'll get you the originals on a USB stick and a link to a password-protected site. You can send that to your manager so he can listen, too. You need anything else?” Jojen asks, his spindly fingers already dancing over a nearby laptop keyboard. 

“I don't think so. Thank you for everything.” 

“You guys sound amazing.” Jojen looks up from his chair and grins. “Make sure you use my name when you start doing interviews.” 

Jaime slaps him on the shoulder. “Will do.” 

The band gathers up their items and shuffles out to the entryway. 

“We should celebrate!” Margaery exclaims as they step out into the hot, early-August evening. It's already past eleven, and Jaime's exhausted.Work had been a struggle and he'd sung his ass off to get the demo done. All he wants is to go home and talk to Brienne, who he hasn't seen all week in order to get this demo recorded at Vary's behest. He checks his watch and considers briefly whether he could drive fast enough to make it worth his time to go to her house. 

“I think he's got a date,” Sandor says dryly, and Jaime chuckles. 

“Too late for a date, but I do owe a phone call. I'll see you all Friday?” 

“We'll be there.” Margaery reaches out and wraps him in a hug. They've all discovered that she's an enthusiastic hugger. Even Sandor puts up with it, and Jaime suspects Sandor hasn't hugged anyone in years. “That demo's gonna kill. You've got nothing to worry about.” 

“From your lips to God's ears,” Jaime says and Sandor huffs. 

“Should be more worried about Varys' ears,” he grumbles. They all wave and go their separate ways, and Jaime heads for home. Arya's sleeping on the couch when he comes in, and he gently shakes her awake. 

She startles and squints at him. “How'd it go?” she asks, whispering, as if anything could wake Belle from where Jaime can see her through the open door at the end of the hall, sprawled out on his bed. 

“It went good,” he says. “Now it's up to Varys.” 

“Good luck.” She yawns wide and he slips her an extra twenty. “What are you gonna do with Belle when you have to tour?”

Jaime stares uncertainly. “I don't rightly know,” he murmurs, looking back at his dog. “I hadn't thought much about it.” 

“You should. A pet sitter's not gonna cut it. Maybe she'll like flying.” 

The idea of boxing Belle up and putting her in the cargo hold of a plane sounds awful. Maybe he can pay for a seat for her instead. Even when they drive, there will be long days on the road followed by hotel rooms he'll have to leave her alone in while he's doing publicity and performing. That's gonna be a problem he'll have to eventually solve. 

For now, he bids Arya goodnight and then flops down on the couch, already dialing Brienne's number. She answers after a single ring. 

“Hey,” she says, and her voice settles in his chest like a warm blanket. 

“Hey. I hope I didn't wake you.” 

“No, I was up. Did you finish it? How did it turn out?”

Jaime leans his head back against the sofa. “It's good. It's real good. I'll send you the link so you can hear it. Special girlfriend bonus.” 

Her small laugh fills him up. “If I'd known that, maybe I wouldn't have been so hesitant.” 

“Gotta make it worth your while to put up with me.” 

“Jaime,” she says in the fond way he likes so much. 

“How was your day?” he asks quickly. “Mine was pretty boring overall.” 

“Mine, too. I spent all day reading this book on marketing and watching episodes of _Bar Rescue_.”

“Oh no, please don't bring Jon Taffer out to Selwyn's.” 

“I won't,” she says, chuckling. “But I've pulled some nuggets out, so I'm going to start doing some research.” She sighs and he can feel her weariness even from here. “Tell me about the session tonight. Did Ilyn say anything?” 

Jaime snorts. “He asked for the creamer for his coffee once. Otherwise, the man may as well have no tongue.” 

He tells her about the rest of it – Sandor's reluctance to make a mid-song shift for the opener, Margaery's increasingly militant cheerfulness as the night wore on, Jaime's own fucking up of one lyric that took him five times to get right. 

“Have you sent it to Varys yet?” she asks when he winds down. 

“No. I'll do it in the morning.”

“What happens after that?” 

Jaime shrugs a little. “He makes the decision.”

“And then you sign with him.” She sounds confident and a little nervous, both of which Jaime feels, too. 

“Assuming the demo doesn't throw him off for some reason.”

“You know it won't. He'll want you to go on tour.” 

“Probably,” he agrees, tugging off his boots. He stretches his toes out and sighs. “Arya asked me what I was going to do with Belle when I do.”

“Oh. Do you have any ideas? Could she stay with one of your family?” 

Jaime laughs, a sharp bark of slightly bitter amusement. “Spoken like someone who's never met my family. I wouldn't trust them with a goldfish.”

“I could do it, if you wanted.” 

He watches his reflection in the dark TV screen, a stir of hope and something far more intense lighting up in his heart. “Yeah? I don't want to impose. You've got plenty going on.”

“She's not an imposition, Jaime. I love Belle, and I think she likes me well enough.” 

“She'd abandon me for you in a second,” he tells her. “You keep making her eggs for breakfast, and she looks so betrayed every time we come back here and she only gets kibble in the morning.” Brienne's laugh is pleased and shy. “I'd be grateful if you could watch Belle while I'm gone. It'll be at least a few months though. You're sure that wouldn't be too much?” 

“Not at all. It'd be nice to have her here, especially while you're gone,” she says, the forced levity clear. “Her snoring will remind me of you.” 

“That hurts, Barkeep.”

“Sometimes the truth does.” She clears her throat. “Listen, uh, about your family. You mentioned once about meeting your brother.” 

“I did,” he says, his heart kicking into a faster tempo. 

“I could do that, too, sometime. If you still wanted.” 

“I do,” Jaime tells her. “But I have to warn you, Tyrion's not the easiest person to get to know.”

“Gosh, I don't know anybody else like that,” she says dryly, and Jaime makes an amused noise in his chest. 

“He's an asshole.”

“You love him, he can't be that bad.” 

“I'm an asshole, too,” Jaime says, resting his head back against the couch.

“I wasn't debating that.” Her voice is light over the line. God, he wishes she weren't so far away. When he does go on tour, the distance is going to be unbearable. “I can handle an asshole, and if you'd like me to meet him, I'd like it, too.” 

“I'd like that a lot.” The idea of Tyrion and Brienne meeting, the crossing over of his two worlds, should probably fill Jaime with terror. But it's yearning he feels instead, to be wrapped up in that sweet and sticky molasses of family that he hasn't had since his mother died. It's too much importance to put on a single meeting – Brienne still hasn't even been to his apartment, mostly because he likes the coziness of her little house too much. But he wants her to meet his brother, and to have her here, and to see if the coziness is because of the space, or because she's in it. “I'll talk to him and we can work something out in the next few weeks.” 

“Good. What about the rest of your family?” 

“Let's just start with Tyrion. The rest of them get progressively worse as you go.” 

“I'm sorry,” she says solemnly.

“Don't worry about it.” He knows his tone slices too sharp even as he says it. Brienne means well, but he's too tired to think about his family tonight, and all the ways he's always felt alone surrounded by them. “It's getting late,” he says, hoping to protect her from potential injury. 

He can almost hear her pursing her lips in disappointment. “I suppose,” she says. “I'll see you Friday?”

“Yeah.” He doesn't want to talk about it, but he also doesn't want to leave her like this. “You're welcome to send me any more naughty photos you want in the meantime,” he drawls, and that earns a small laugh. 

“Compared to yours, mine was downright chaste.” The lightness is back, and he decides he's not too tired to hear a little more of that before bed. 

“Mm, not from my perspective. That underside curve of your breast is so sweet,” he murmurs, and she makes an interesting little whimper that encourages him to try more. “I'd like to put my mouth there right now,” he ventures further. “Maybe my teeth.”

“I thought it was late,” she gasps.

This is better by far than wallowing in self-pity about his family. “I was only letting you go to get some sleep, but if you're still awake...” 

Brienne's breathing has picked up, and the muscles of Jaime's thighs tense in anticipation. “What were you thinking?” she asks, her tone low and curious and a little uncertain. Her voice alone could get him off, he's pretty sure. 

“We could practice our phone sex. Best to work out the kinks before we really need it.” He slides down a little on the couch, opens his legs to try to give his growing erection some room. 

“Practice?” Brienne sounds adorably doubtful. 

“Sure,” he says cheerfully. “What are you wearing?” 

She snorts a little. “Sweats and a t-shirt.” 

“I'm gonna need a little more description than that, Barkeep. What color are the sweats? Is your shirt soft? Are you wearing a bra?” He presses his palm against himself briefly, manages not to groan aloud at the pressure. “Start with that last one.” 

“No bra,” she says, knocking his feet out from under him. He's fairly sure now that she's always bra-less at the bar, that he could walk in any night and slip his hands under her tank-top and touch just skin. The knowledge consumes him. “My shirt is soft, I guess,” she continues, apparently unaware of the effect she's having. “It's old, but comfortable. My pants are kind of a heather gray. What else do you want to know?” 

Jaime chuckles, strained. “Everything.”

“I don't know what that means,” she grouses. 

“How about I start, and then you jump in?” 

“Have you done this before?” she asks, not accusing, just curious. 

“Nope, but I have a very vivid imagination. Are you in bed?”

“Um, hold on.” 

Jaime takes the time to unbutton his jeans, pull his zipper down and shift his pants down enough to set his cock free. He does groan in relief, then, though he doesn't otherwise touch himself. 

“Okay, now I'm in bed. I, uh, took my sweats off.” 

It's easy enough to picture: Brienne sitting up in her bed on her fancy sheets, in just the simple cotton underwear she'd pulled on the other day, her legs eating up so much space it's a miracle she fits. They're long enough to wrap around his shoulders, and his cock twitches. This isn't gonna take him very long at all, at this rate. 

“Good girl,” he says, already hoarse, and she inhales sharply, but not in a sexy way. “Sorry, is that--should I not say that?”

“I don't know,” she admits. “Not over the phone, where I can't see you.” 

“Alright. See, this is good, we're already learning. I'm glad you're in your panties. Can you take your shirt off for me, too?”

“Yes, one second, please.” Jaime grins at her politeness, and then she's back. “It's off.” 

“Thank you,” he says with earnest gratitude. 

“This is the most civil phone sex ever,” she says dryly. 

“We're easing into it. Do you wanna know what I'm wearing?”

“Yes,” she answers with a thrilling quickness. “Are you in bed?”

“I'm on my couch. My bed is otherwise occupied.” 

Brienne's laugh is loud. His apartment feels even emptier when it dies away again. “You spoil her.”

“You do, too. I've seen how you let her sleep in your bed.” He swallows a little. “You'll have to come see mine soon.” 

“I'd like that,” she says softly. 

He'd like it, too. He'd like to wake up and make _her_ coffee, to come back from the recording studio and have her here, not just on the phone. 

Jaime clears his throat and refocuses on what they're actually doing. “Where were we?” he says roughly. 

“You were about to tell me what you're wearing.” 

“Right. Well, I took my hat and boots off already. I'm wearing a t-shirt. I wanted to be comfortable when I was singing today. It's deep blue, which makes me think of you.” She makes a small, happy noise. “I've got jeans on, but I've had to pull them down because I'm so hard already just talking to you.”

“Oh,” she breathes. “That's, um. Nice.”

He laughs, amused. “You seemed to think it was more than nice a few days ago.” 

“It-it was.” Brienne sighs. “I don't know if I'm cut out for this phone sex thing.” 

“We can stop if you want,” he reassures her. “Try to go a little further next time.” 

“No,” she says hurriedly, and his brows lift. “I just... I don't know what to say. Can you do all the talking, at least this time? Mostly about yourself?” 

“I happen to be excellent at talking about myself,” he says, grinning. “Can I talk about what I'd like to do to you, too?” 

“Yes,” she says in a low-pitched hum of desire that thrums through him. 

“If I were there right now, I'd pull you onto my lap. Put your nipples right where I could suck on them.” Brienne exhales shakily into the phone and Jaime rubs his hand along his abdomen. “Touch yourself while we're doing this, Brienne. I'll keep talking until I hear you come.” 

“Okay,” she whispers. “Although I already was t-touching myself.” 

Jaime huffs, half-amused and half-desperate. He can imagine her long fingers dipping underneath the band of her panties, sliding between the lips of her vulva. Maybe slipping one or two inside herself, where he knows how soft and strong she is. More blood surges to his cock and he inhales deeply. 

“Are you wet?” he asks, hoarse already. “Because I am.” The head of his cock is glistening, and he groans when he slides his thumb smoothly across the slit. 

“Yes,” Brienne murmurs. “Surprisingly wet.” 

“That's good,” he manages. “I'm wrapping my hand around my cock now,” he says, doing it. “Just like you do sometimes. Can you picture it?”

“Yes,” she says on a hard exhale. 

“I'm stroking myself and I'm thinking about you riding me. You're so tall and powerful and hot all around me. I'd let you hold me down and fuck me however you wanted.” She mewls greedily. “My cock is leaking just thinking about it. I think about sliding into you every night. During a lot of meetings, too.”

Brienne laughs, breathlessly. 

“Me, too,” she tells him. “Will you take your shirt off?” 

“Yes.” He's got it off a few seconds later, thrown to the floor in his haste. “What else do you want me to do?” 

“Tell me,” Brienne's voice is thready, the pauses filled with her harsh breathing, “tell me more about what you're doing. Where you are. What you look like.” 

“I've got blonde hair--”

“Jaime,” she snaps, and he bites back laughter at how annoyed she sounds. “You know what I mean.”

“Yes, ma'am, I do,” he drawls. “I'm on my couch. It's leather, which means it'll be easier to clean up the mess I'm about to make. I'm not going to have to do much, because I'm already so fucking worked up just listening to you. Picturing you touching yourself. Thinking about you and not just my hand clenching around me.” He moans as he strokes himself, and Brienne whimpers on the line. His thighs and balls are tightening already and he forces himself to slow down. “Are you close, Brienne?”

“Y-yes.”

“So am I. I want to put my mouth on your body. Your neck, the little patch of freckles along your hip, your plump clit.” Brienne whines a little and he can hear her nearing the edge. “I will, on Friday after the concert. Will you take me home again, Brienne, and let me fuck you all night?” She makes a noise that sounds like agreement. He doesn't blame her for her wordlessness; he's had to mostly stop touching himself in order to form thoughts. “We can put that vibrator to even better use. You'll have to close your windows so the neighbors don't complain about all the noises you're gonna make. Tell me, Brienne, has anyone ever made you scream while coming?” 

“No,” she moans. 

“Another goal,” he says, dragging his fingertips lightly up and down the trembling length of his cock. 

“Are you close?” she gasps. 

“I was, but I had to stop so I didn't come before you.” 

She pants into the phone. “I want to hear you.” 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he groans. “It won't be long.”

“It doesn't need to be,” she manages. “Please.” 

Jaime rubs his palm along the wet head of his cock and then grips himself tight. “I wish you were here,” he says, his hand moving slick and fast. God, he was closer than he thought. It's hard to speak, but he wants to bring her with him. “I love how--how pink you get all over. I love your taste. I love-- _ahh_ ,” he cries out as his orgasm hits him sudden and hard and shorts out whatever was about to spill from his lips. Brienne keens softly on the line, a high-pitched, drawn-out release that wraps around him as his hand jerks wildly, pulling the last of his orgasm out of him. 

His stomach is a mess, and he did get some on the couch leather. Jaime slumps back into the cushions, breathing hard. He gives both of them a minute and then asks, “Brienne?”

“Wow,” she exhales. 

“I take it that worked?” He can hear his own smugness, but he doesn't really care. 

“Yes. I hope you're not gonna be obnoxious about this.”

“I would never,” he says, pretending offense. 

“Mm,” she grunts, and he smiles into the darkness of his apartment. 

“I should go clean myself up,” he says. 

“I should, too. That was good practice. I have no idea how I'm going to look you in the eye on Friday,” she says, sheepish. 

“It's no different than actual sex.”

“Yeah and I can barely look at you now because of it.” But he can hear her smiling, can picture her big lips curled up warm and happy. Of every expression he's seen on her face, that one is his favorite; she seems almost shy in her joy, like it's something fresh and uncertain and she doesn't want to startle it. Jaime's going to do his best to put that smile on her face as often as he can. Fuck, but he loves her. 

As soon as he thinks it, he nearly drops the phone. 

“So I'll see you Friday?” Brienne says, blessedly oblivious. 

“Uh.” Jaime clears his throat and tries to hear anything over his pounding heart. “Yeah. Friday.”

“Goodnight, Jaime. Sleep well.” 

“I'm sure I will,” he dredges up a joking tone from somewhere. She snickers, so it must have sounded believable. “You, too. Goodnight.” He hangs up before he ruins it by saying anything else and then stares out at nothing, dazed. 

Jaime stands, cleans up himself and the couch, then heads to bed, managing to shove Belle enough aside that he has at least a slice of mattress he can climb onto. The entire time there's a low chorus of _I'm in love with her_ warbling in his heart. 

There's nothing truly surprising about being in love with Brienne, except, perhaps, the fact it's taken him this long to realize he is. It's been mere weeks since he'd stormed back into her bar and thrown his heart at her feet, but he sees with sudden clarity that when she'd picked it up, she'd never given it back. 

Jaime wonders if she knows she's had it all this time. If knowing will bring her closer or push her away. She's brave, his Brienne, but so protective of her own wounded, tender heart; so disbelieving of promises that she can't hold. Telling her he loves her might convince her of how much he cares, or it might be too much, too soon; a too-bright light that sends her hiding away. He's not sure he'll ever forget that knife's edge moment in the bar when he'd pressed her for more and he'd seen in her eyes that she'd almost said no. As impulsive as he can be, he's not ready to chance that again yet – Brienne's not the only one who's afraid. 

They're here together now, and it's enough that he can sit with his feelings until he figures out when to tell her, and how; she won't be rough with him in the meantime. Not on purpose, at least, and the reward for doing this right will be priceless beyond measure. 

He just hopes he'll have the patience to wait long enough to earn it.


	17. I'm still learning how to bend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion huffs, annoyed, and then waves his hand at Jaime. “What are you doing here, anyway? Did I miss a meeting?”
> 
> “I can't just come see my brother in the middle of the morning, especially when he's been gone on a business trip? What's the point of working in the same office if not for the chance to socialize with the ones you love?” 
> 
> Tyrion gives him a dry look. “Now I _know_ something's up.”

“What if you fucked off instead?” 

Jaime halts as he hears that when he steps into his brother's office a couple weeks later, but Tyrion gestures for Jaime to come in, and points to the earbud in his ear. 

“Yes, consider that our final counteroffer,” Tyrion says, and then presses a button on his phone and slumps back in his lifted chair. 

“Sounds like negotiations are going well,” Jaime says, taking the chair on the other side of Tyrion's desk. There are two: one to accommodate people with dwarfism, and one for – as Tyrion dubs it – the rest of abnormally tall humanity. Since Jaime is the one who mostly sits in that chair, he's not sure if that's a condemnation of himself in particular or every non-short human. 

“We'll close that deal by the end of the day,” Tyrion assures him, beaming. “Then that will put me... what, double digits ahead of you?”

“You're the only one keeping track,” Jaime says lightly, though he's certain Tyrion passed that threshold months ago. Jaime's already-anemic totals have only been falling since that first Tuesday night at Selwyn's. 

Tyrion wrinkles his nose in disgust. “You're no fun.”

“It's work, it's not supposed to be fun.” 

“It doesn't _have_ to be fun, but it certainly _can_ be,” Tyrion corrects him sagely. 

“Thank you, Tony Robbins.” 

Tyrion huffs, annoyed, and then waves his hand at Jaime. “What are you doing here, anyway? Did I miss a meeting?”

“I can't just come see my brother in the middle of the morning, especially when he's been gone on a business trip? What's the point of working in the same office if not for the chance to socialize with the ones you love?” 

Tyrion gives him a dry look. “Now I _know_ something's up.”

Jaime chuckles a little and looks around the room. Their father's office is dark and heavy with wealth: imposing desk, expensive gold filigree everywhere, awards lining the walls. Tyrion's office is like a slightly angled version of that. He's still using expensive wood, but it's smaller and lighter in color. He's got statues, but they're mostly marble, and the white lightens the space. They're also just shy of being unacceptable for a work space, but he's too successful for anyone to say anything. It also helps, Jaime supposes, that he's the boss' son, even if he's the less beloved one. 

“I do need to talk to you,” Jaime says, staring at a pink bowl that's oval with waving edges and is one hundred percent a vulva. “That's new.” He nods his head at the bowl and Tyrion laughs in delight.

“It's a yoni statue,” Tyrion tells him. “Very respectable old tradition.”

“You don't think that's inappropriate for the office?” Jaime calmly asks, and Tyrion shrugs. 

“I haven't had any complaints yet. What do you want? Or did you just come to criticize my taste in art?” 

Jaime sighs and forces himself to lean back in his chair, tuck one leg over the other. “Do you remember when we were spitballing names months ago? I was idly talking about performing again but I didn't want to do it under my name?”

“Yes,” Tyrion says slowly. “What was that one I came up with? Colt Lightning?”

“Colt Thunder,” Jaime says. 

Tyrion laughs loudly. “Right, right. The stripper name.” 

“Yeah. Although at the time you said it was 'memorable' and no one would guess it was me,” Jaime says. 

“That was the joke, Jaime.”

“Ah,” he says, sighing. He should have known his brother hadn't taken any of it seriously. Jaime knew the name had been over-the-top, but had believed Tyrion's reasoning; he always has trusted his brother's goodwill too much. “What if I told you that I've actually been performing under that name for months?”

For perhaps the first time in their lives, Tyrion's mouth drops open in genuine, unfiltered shock. “Are you being serious?”

“Entirely. And I've been signed by a manager.” 

“Jaime, that's--” Jaime's not sure he's ever seen Tyrion so at a loss for words. “Why?”

“Because I'm good,” Jaime says, defensive. 

“Not that. Why are you performing again? I thought you were done with it?” 

“I had been, for a while, But I missed it. I love performing, Tyrion. I've been happier these last months than I've been in decades.” _Maybe ever_ , he almost adds, but surely he'd enjoyed some of his success last time, even if he can't recall feeling it. 

“There _has_ been a lightness to your step, especially recently. I just assumed you'd finally found a woman who would put up with your obnoxiously good looks and devotion to your dog.” 

“Well,” Jaime says hesitantly, and Tyrion's lingering surprise dissipates, replaced with a sly, leering grin. 

“Oh, so there's a woman, too? What's she like? Show me a photo – I'm sure she's stunning and I want to admire her attributes.” 

“You're appalling,” Jaime says, keeping his phone in his pocket. “I wanted to introduce the two of you, but now I'm not so sure.” 

“Introduce us?” Tyrion lifts his perfectly trimmed brows. Jaime's fairly sure his brother spends twice as much time and money on his looks as Cersei does. He'd even tried contacts once, for his differently-colored eyes, until he'd decided the unsettling effect of them gave him an edge in most negotiations. “That's quite a step. How long have you been seeing her?”

Jaime considers how to explain the arc of his relationship with Brienne and decides on the simplest version for now. “A few months.” 

“I would love to meet the woman who's survived you for a few months, and made you happier while doing so. I'll make myself free for that. Is she nearby?” 

“No, she lives outside the city.” 

“A country girl? That's a surprise.” 

“It's not like she lives on a farm,” Jaime mutters. “She'll be up here this afternoon, though. I thought she could stop by the office later.” 

“That hallowed tradition of meeting your brother's girlfriend in the lobby of an office building.”

Jaime gives him an unamused look. “If we do something longer it'll just give you more opportunity to make an ass of yourself. Consider it a gift.”

“Hurtful,” Tyrion says, and Jaime thinks there might be a sliver of truth behind it. “But fair. Bring her by and I'll do my best not to send her screaming into the night.” 

“I appreciate it.” Jaime taps his fingers on his boot and Tyrion waits with an expectant look. “She's not the only reason I'm here. I also came to tell you that I recorded a demo album, and my manager wants me to do a tour to attract more attention.” 

“As Colt Thunder?”

“No. As Jaime Lannister.”

“Ah.” Tyrion steeples his fingers, in a move straight from their father. “You know Father's going to hate that.” 

“I know. Especially when I put in my notice to do it.” 

Tyrion drops his hands to his sides, shocked yet again. “Are you trying to get disowned?”

“Not _actively_ , no.” 

“Can't you just take an extended vacation?” 

“A months-long vacation?” Jaime shakes his head. “Even if he'd agree to that – which you know he won't – I want to commit to this. I've got money set aside and I still get residuals. Plus, Varys says those will jump higher, too, when I announce my tour.” 

“When's your last day?”

“Friday.” The look on his brother's face is almost comical. 

“Now I'm afraid you're actually trying to kill him.” 

Jaime rolls his eyes. “As though you wouldn't consider that a favor.” 

“Why are you telling me all this now?” Tyrion asks, and there's something off in his voice. 

“You're my brother. I wanted you to know before I did it.”

Tyrion waves vaguely. “I appreciate the heads-up. You've given me so much time to figure out how to handle Father.” 

“Let him rage at me, you don't need to step in.”

“I don't have to step in, he'll pull me into it,” Tyrion says with blunt certainty.

“Tyrion--”

“It's not your fault he's still convinced someday you'll be the son he wants. But put in a good word for me before you go? A recommendation can't hurt.” Tyrion smiles, thin and bitter. 

“You should start your own company. Go head-to-head against him.”

Tyrion looks, unexpectedly, disappointed. “I don't want to fight him, Jaime.”

_He still wants to be accepted by him_ , Jaime realizes. _After all this time._ The one thing their father will never do. “Maybe it will be easier with me gone,” Jaime offers. 

His little brother snorts indelicately, but says, “Maybe. I suppose it's good you're letting me meet your girlfriend before you go. That way I can comfort her while you're off having panties thrown at you.” 

“God, Tyrion, don't be so crass.” 

“At least it will let me see if it's just the Lannister name she wants.”

“Such a cynic,” Jaime says. “She obviously likes me for my great ass.” 

Tyrion chuckles. “Probably true. You should be careful, though; it's not like we haven't all run into gold-diggers before.” 

“Yes, and Cersei married hers,” Jaime says darkly. He's never liked Robert, had been shocked when Cersei had accepted the man's proposal. They seem to mostly have bonded over using each other to increase their station, and though it works for his twin, the very idea of a marriage like that makes Jaime's skin crawl. 

Tyrion shrugs a little. He's never been interested in marriage at all, from what Jaime can tell. “Got her what she wanted, didn't it? She's happier than either of us, I'd wager.” 

Jaime wouldn't wager that at all. “Brienne's not a gold-digger,” he insists. “She didn't even know who I was when we first met, so I know it's not the money.” 

“She met you as Colt Thunder and was still interested? Now I can't _wait_ to meet her.”

“You won't have to wait long.” Jaime checks his watch and stands. “I'll ping you later when she gets here – you'll be around?” 

“All day.” 

Jaime starts for the door and then hesitates. “You know... I have one last show as Colt Thunder this Friday. My manager wants me to announce my real name and the tour there. You could come, if you're free.” 

He knows better than to expect much out of Tyrion, but his brother comes through just often enough that Jaime still asks, a well-trained lab rat to the end. He's not so different from Brienne in this. 

“I suppose. Will anyone else we know be there?” 

“No Lannisters. Brienne bartends at the bar where I'm playing.”

“A bartender? That seems a little...”

“If you say gauche, I'm going to defenestrate you.” 

Tyrion rolls his eyes. “Still with the word games?” 

“I've got to impress Father somehow, considering what a disappointment I am in every other way.” Jaime's perfected the dry sarcasm he delivers that with, but Tyrion knows him too well to believe a word of it, and he gives Jaime a pitying look.

Jaime waves him off, uninterested in Tyrion's pity or pithy comments. “I'll text you the address. Show starts at eight. You will go, won't you?” 

“I wouldn't miss it,” Tyrion says solemnly. 

Jaime doubts that, but he's deciding to aim for hope these days, rather than comfortable cynicism. He nods and reaches for the door. 

“And Jaime?” Tyrion calls out. Jaime looks back at his little brother, sitting straight-backed behind his desk with his hands folded seriously in front of him. “Since it's been awhile, I can get you a yoni statue if you need help remembering where the clitoris is.” 

Jaime still hears Tyrion's laughter even when he shuts the door behind him.

* * *

“Is this my sister in downtown Nashville twice in two months?” Galladon says when Brienne nears where he's waiting for her outside the little cafe he's picked for lunch. 

She rolls her eyes and gives him a hug. “I've been here to see shows lots of times in the last couple of months.” 

“And you didn't visit your brother? Bless my soul.” Gal makes a melodramatic gesture and she punches him lightly in the shoulder. 

“Making fun of me isn't going to make me come up here _more_ ,” she warns him and he gives her a sheepish grin. “So is this place at least affordable?” 

“I'm buying, regardless, but yes, it is. Come on, let's get seated and then you can tell me all about _Jaime_.” He says the last breathily and she hits him again. 

They take a seat near the window, so they can watch the people go by. Their server drops off menus and Brienne scans it while Gal leaves his unopened. 

“Not gonna eat?” she asks. 

“I come here a lot.” His eyes stray to a pretty woman behind the counter, who seems to be neither cook nor server. Manager, she guesses. 

“Galladon's got a cru-ush,” she singsongs. 

“Shut up,” he mutters, tugging her menu so it almost slips out of her hands. “I'm not the one dating a stripper cowboy.” 

Brienne sighs, annoyed. “I told you--”

“Yeah, yeah, I met him. The Great Jaime Lannister. He only moonlights as a stripper cowboy. How's that going between the two of you? I assume well since you said you were up here to see him.” 

“It's going really well,” she says, staring intently at the menu. It's only been a handful of weeks, but they've settled into a routine. Jaime spends every Monday and Wednesday night at her house and then leaves late to make it to work the next day, and he stays over every Friday. Ferny is slowly starting to warm up to him thanks to their Saturday brunches at the diner. In between, they talk nearly every day. Jaime's become a part of her daily rhythms in such a short period of time that it worries her, but it's not like he's forcing himself into her life. She calls him just as often as he calls her; she's the one who bought him a toothbrush for her bathroom. 

And it's all going to change after this Friday. 

“Dad says he's still playing at the bar,” Gal says in a too-nonchalant voice, and Brienne peers at her brother over the top of her menu. 

“He does for now. But his last show is this week.” 

“Everything ok?” 

“Yeah. He's making some career moves,” she says vaguely. “Did Dad say anything else to you?” 

Gal looks down at his menu, tracing the name of the cafe with one finger. “Not explicitly.”

As soon as Brienne closes her menu, their waiter comes over with a cheerful, “Howdy! Are you ready to order?” 

She frowns a little but they do, and once he comes back with their drinks and leaves them alone again, Brienne taps her glass with her finger. “What _has_ Dad told you?” she asks. 

“About Jaime?”

“About anything.”

Gal rolls one big shoulder in a shrug. “Honestly, just enough to make me suspicious. He said Jaime's been playing, and that you two are always canoodling everywhere--”

“Canoodling?” she interrupts, flushing. “Dad has never said that word in his life.” 

“He absolutely did.”

“I don't believe you,” she says, taking a sip of her iced tea before adding more sugar. 

“I see you still drink your tea like a child.” 

“Oh god, you haven't turned to unsweetened tea, have you? Gal.” He takes a long drink of his water in response and she shakes her head, disappointed. “The city has changed you.”

“Mock all you want, but at least I have a sensitive palette now that I'm not drowning it in sugar.” 

It's teasing, on both their parts, but it hurts anyway, yet another inch of distance in the gap that grows larger between them. Brienne huffs and unfolds her napkin, laying it over her lap to distract herself. “Are you gonna tell me what Dad said or not?”

“There wasn't anything specific,” Gal says, and he's serious again, too. “But he sounded worried. And he kept talking about how Jaime was leaving and everything would be okay. Like he was trying to convince himself. So it's either you or the bar he's worried about.”

She makes a noncommittal noise and Gal frowns at her, annoyed.

“Whatever this is, you don't have to hide it from me,” he tells her. 

“I'm not hiding anything. You just never ask.” 

“Well I'm asking now.” He lays his hands flat on the table. “What's going on, Brienne?”

The cafe is filling up as the lunch hour goes on; the street outside is full of tourists and locals walking past. It's sunny, but there's an overhang that keeps the sun from beaming in on them, except for the very edge of the table, which is glowing with bright white light. Brienne stares at that instead of Galladon as she says, “The bar is in debt.”

“How much debt?” 

“Enough to be worried about,” she tells the strip of sunlight. Across the table, Gal sighs. 

“Fuck.” That one word is loaded with so much feeling that Brienne looks at him, and he's got the same defeated slump of the shoulders she'd seen in her dad. “So he's closing it down.”

“No,” she snaps. Gal's head jerks back a little. “ _We_ are fighting to keep it open.” 

“Brienne--”

“You don't get a say in this, Gal. You made your stance on the bar very clear when you abandoned it.” 

“I came here to try to make something more of myself. I didn't abandon anything.”

“Then why do you never come back?” she asks tightly, and their server reappears with a big smile and their food, setting it down with a cheery clunk. 

“Can I get anything else for the two of you?” he asks, and they both shake their heads tightly. “If you need anything, give me a holler. Enjoy your meals!” 

Once he leaves, neither of them moves to eat. 

“Brie-bee,” Gal starts first, and she flinches at the familiar nickname. “Listen to me: the bar's been struggling for awhile. You're there all the time, you know how the repairs keep piling up. It's a sinking ship, and Dad was wrong to try to convince you otherwise. But with Jaime leaving... it's time to let it go.” 

_Of course that's his first thought_ , she thinks. It shouldn't hurt so much that it is. “I won't.” 

“Brienne--”

“I said no.” She looks down at her food. “I'm not hungry. I think I'm gonna get a box to go.”

“Come on now, don't do that,” he pleads. “Why did you come see me today?”

“It doesn't matter anymore.”

“Unless you're gonna wrap that French dip in a napkin, you have time before we get our server back, so why don't you tell me anyway?” His eyes still remind her too much of her mother. She'd been young when their mom had died, but with the photos she sees around the bar all the time, Brienne's still got a vivid memory of their mother's loving eyes. 

Brienne sighs, tugging the little toothpick out of her sandwich and poking it into the bread again. “I was going to ask you about helping with our plan to save the bar. Marketing is your specialty, after all.”

“ _You_ wanted to ask me for help?” he asks, a small, wry smile on his face. 

“Dad and Jaime suggested it,” she admits. “I can do it on my own but... it would be cutting off my nose to spite my face to not get your expertise.” 

“That's big of you,” he says, a slice of sarcasm that she can't take right now. 

“Please don't,” she says, quiet and firm. “I'm making a business deal with you. I'll pay for your input.”

Gal throws his napkin down on the table. “Goddammit. I'm your brother.” 

“I know. And I'm paying, or I'm walking.”

Gal exhales, loud and frustrated. “You get your stubbornness from him, you know.” 

“It's served me well. So?” 

“You have a deal. Should we shake on it to make it official?” He sounds so serious, the charming twinkle in his eyes hidden away. Brienne wonders if he looks like this with his actual clients, or if it's just her. 

“A contract working out the details will be enough.” And because she can see how much this does actually bother him, she gives him a small smile. “I will take the family and friends discount, though.” 

Gal snorts once, a sharp blast of noise, but he relaxes somewhat in the seat across from her. “Done.” He picks up his tuna melt, examining it for a second. “You said Dad suggested this?” he adds casually. 

“He did. He said you know what you're doing.” 

“I do. I'm good at my job, Brienne. Maybe you'll see that, too.” He takes a bite of his sandwich, but Brienne just picks at her bread. “If you do all this, and it doesn't work out – that's not on you.” 

“Of course it's on me. I'm the one who talked Dad into not just giving up.” 

Gal lowers his sandwich. “He was gonna let it go?” 

“He was gonna quit, on the one constant thing in our lives.” The top of her French dip is ruined from her playing with it and she shoves her plate away. “If it fails, it's on me.” 

“It's not,” he protests. 

“It is.” Brienne meets his worried gaze. “But it doesn't matter, because I'm not going to fail.”


	18. I got lightning in my veins and thunder in my chest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After her lunch with Gal, Brienne wanders around downtown Nashville to kill some time. She forces herself to stroll with the tourists, to not think about her dad's bar as she passes others. These bars look different in daylight, too, their own more minor flaws a little more visible. It's a small relief that maybe Selwyn's isn't so far behind.
> 
> She stops in a gift shop at one point and almost buys Jaime some Nashville-themed knick-knack he can take on tour, but even as she holds the guitar-shaped keychain in her hand, she feels silly and puts it back. It's not Nashville she wants him to remember.

After her lunch with Gal, Brienne wanders around downtown Nashville to kill some time. She forces herself to stroll with the tourists, to not think about her dad's bar as she passes others. These bars look different in daylight, too, their own more minor flaws a little more visible. It's a small relief that maybe Selwyn's isn't so far behind.

She stops in a gift shop at one point and almost buys Jaime some Nashville-themed knick-knack he can take on tour, but even as she holds the guitar-shaped keychain in her hand, she feels silly and puts it back. It's not Nashville she wants him to remember. 

A few hours later, she steps into the lobby of Lannister Development. The Lannisters own their office building, of course, and the entryway is immaculate – art from local artists on the walls, potted plants dotted around, newspaper clippings and company awards elegantly displayed. There's even a small waterfall in the wall behind the receptionist's desk. It rushes pleasantly down and then gets recycled back up again in a never-ending mimic of nature. She wonders if the politely smiling receptionist ever gets sick of the constant hum, or if it just fades into the background. 

There's no music in the lobby, and with the waterfall drone it gives the whole space the feel of a meditative temple. 

When Brienne steps up to the desk, the receptionist's voice is loud in comparison. “Good afternoon. Welcome to Lannister Development, how may I help you?” 

Her accent is very faint, just enough to make her sound friendly without sounding too Southern. 

“Hi, I'm here to see Jaime? Um, Jaime Lannister.” 

The woman's smile stays plastered on her face, but it's impossible to hide the disbelieving lift of her eyebrows. “And you are?” 

“Brienne Tarth. I'm, uh.” She hesitates, not sure whether announcing herself as his girlfriend is some sort of faux pas. “A friend.” 

“Indeed,” the woman murmurs. “I'll just ring his desk and see if he's available.” Her entire demeanor suggests he will not be, that Brienne should be prepared to walk right back out the door into the late-afternoon heat. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Lannister,” the woman purrs and Brienne tries not to roll her eyes. “This is Hildy at the front desk. You have a visitor here, says her name is Bri-” She goes quiet, and her smile drops. “I see. Yes, sir. I'll show her right in.” Hildy's gaze flickers to Brienne and then back to her phone as she hangs up. Brienne has to give Hildy credit when she looks up again: her smile is composed, and welcoming. 

“He asked me to show you to his office. Follow me, please.” 

Hildy leads Brienne into an elevator and presses four, which appears to be the top floor. “How do you know Jaime?” she asks, all friendly curiosity. 

“We, um. Uh.” Brienne tries to think of how to tell the truth without telling too much. They should have worked this out ahead of time. “We go to concerts together.” 

“Sounds like dating,” Hildy chirps and Brienne laughs nervously.

“Yeah, sure does.” 

The doors open and Jaime's there, looking down at his phone. When he looks up at the soft ding of the elevator, everything about him changes: his distracted frown transforms into a beaming smile, his shoulders relax, a pure kind of light suffuses him from the inside out. Brienne's heart pounds like a drumline in her chest and she's certain she looks the same as he does; she can feel it in the smile stretching across her own face. 

“You're here,” he says simply, and when she steps out of the elevator he curves his hand around the back of her neck and pulls her in for a kiss. 

Brienne hears Hildy's surprised noise behind her, but she doesn't care, wrapping her fingers around Jaime's tie to hold on. He lets her go and rubs his nose against hers before glancing over her shoulder at Hildy. “I've got it from here,” he tells the other woman with a sly smile. 

“Yes, sir,” Hildy says. When Brienne turns to thank her, she sees Hildy isn't disgusted or jealous, but thoughtful. “It was nice to meet you,” Hildy says, stepping back to let the doors close. “You may need to re-think your definition of friendship,” she adds with a grin as sly as Jaime's before the elevator whisks her away again. 

“What was that about?” Jaime asks. 

“I wasn't sure how to introduce myself, so I told her you and I were friends.” 

Jaime squeezes her chin gently. “You're my girlfriend,” he tells her confidently. “Or partner, if you want, but that can be misconstrued around these parts.” 

“Girlfriend's fine,” she says shyly, and Jaime kisses her nose. 

“Perfect. You ready to meet my brother? I know this isn't exactly neutral ground, but it gives us better cover to duck out early if he's too much.” 

“Do we need a cover story?” 

Jaime's smile is swift, and sinful. “Just that I'm taking you back to my apartment for the first time.” 

Brienne's face heats, but the rest of her isn't unmoved, either. “I'm not going to tell your brother we have to leave to have sex,” she whispers. 

“That's fine.” Jaime slips his arm through hers and starts them walking. “I'll tell him.” 

Jaime leads her through the hallways in a complicated pattern that has Brienne lost three turns in. She's underdressed for these office spaces in her jeans and button-up shirt, but Jaime doesn't seem to care, so she tries not to, as well. It's difficult when they pass his coworkers, though, all decked out in pressed suits, all giving her the same, unimpressed once-over. They're deferential to Jaime to a fault, and by the time he opens the door to his office and ushers her inside, she can feel the tension in the tight curl of his bicep. 

It's spacious, but bland, which surprises her. A cherry wood desk, a tall plant in the corner. Art of pastel-colored shapes on the wall. There's a small leather loveseat and a bookshelf with a sea of business tomes, and not one personal item in the whole space. 

“Did you just move in?” she asks, and Jaime gives her a lopsided smile. 

“I've been in this office well over a year now.” 

“Seriously?” she asks, examining it again with that information. 

“I never saw the point of trying to fake being comfortable.” He sits in the expensive-looking chair behind the desk, and she takes a moment to really look at him here in this new environment. His suit, like the time she'd seen him at the restaurant, is impeccably tailored. Dark navy with a white shirt and a purple and blue patterned tie that's the only part that feels like it was something he chose. His hair is slicked back against his head, although there's a curl come loose and hanging at his temple that she wants to tug, or tuck away. He's clean-shaven, and clean-cut, and not as she knows him at all. It's tempting to say this isn't him, but it is, even if he hates it. 

Brienne sits down on the small couch while Jaime sends a message to his brother, and then he leans back in the chair and sighs, his hands loose on the armrests. 

“What do you think?” he asks, looking nervous. 

“I think you must be glad you're quitting.”

“I am. But what do _you_ think?”

“Of what?” she asks, relaxing back into the soft leather. 

“Of me. Like this.” 

He's rubbing one fingernail along the seam of the armrest, and she can hear the quiet thup-thup-thup as he does. She's never seen him this ill-at-ease before. “I think it's strange, to see you like this. You don't look like yourself on the surface, but it's still just you. And I like you.”

Jaime's smile is swift and brilliant, and very him. He leans forward and folds his hands on top of his desk, eyes twinkling. “Discovering any latent fantasies, by any chance?” 

That low, roguish voice is also very him, and she shifts on the couch, feeling a flush spread over her chest. 

“Isn't your brother meeting us here?” 

“I didn't mean right now, I meant for later.” 

“I don't know,” she says, tugging her lip between her teeth as she considers him in his perfectly-pressed suit. She wonders what it would look like rumpled and unbuttoned. “Do I have to be the secretary, or can I be the boss?” 

“You can be whatever you want,” he says in a husky tone, and she's saved from her own surging interest by a light knock at the door before it opens immediately after. 

Jaime had told her ahead of time that his brother had dwarfism, so she's not surprised by his size, but she is surprised by his presence. From the moment he steps in, it feels like he's the overly-tall person taking up space. She starts to rise and Tyrion waves her down, striding forward with his hand held out. 

“Don't get up!” he says cheerfully, as they shake hands. His is much smaller in hers, but his grip is strong and he has a way of splaying his fingers that makes it less awkward than it could be. “Brienne Tarth, what a pleasure to meet you.” 

Brienne glances at Jaime, who's watching them with cautious hope. “It's nice to meet you, too,” she tells Tyrion. “Jaime's told me a lot about you.” 

“I hope that's not true,” Tyrion says dryly, shooting his brother a knowing look. 

“So distrustful, little brother.” Jaime looks changed somehow, with his brother here. More like the man she'd run into at the restaurant weeks before; even his voice sounds more refined. 

“I'm aware that I don't advertise well, but I'm very good once you meet me in person.” Tyrion winks at Brienne and she smiles uncertainly, not sure how to take him. He's got some of Jaime's innate charm, but it feels far more aggressive, a demand to be liked rather than an invitation. 

Tyrion climbs onto the couch next to her and claps his hands to his knees. “So tell me, Brienne: would you be interested in a shorter but more successful Lannister brother?”

“Jesus, Tyrion,” Jaime says, glaring at him. 

“I'm sure Brienne knows I'm just joking.” He winks at her again, but it feels even less friendly than last time.

“You're not as funny as you think,” Jaime grumbles. 

“Fine, I'll stick to the traditional, far more boring, questions. Jaime tells me you're a bartender?” 

“Y-yes,” she says, glancing between the two brothers. Jaime looks like he's ready to drag her out of here at the slightest signal. “At Selwyn's. It's our family's bar.” 

“Selwyn's?” Tyrion's elegantly-shaped brows lift. 

“You know it?” Brienne asks. 

“I've never been,” Tyrion says. “Named after a family member?”

“My father's name. He started the bar.” 

“And someday it will be yours,” Tyrion says in a lofty tone that Brienne can't decide if it's mocking or not. 

“That's the plan.” She's glad now that Jaime had insisted they meet here. It does feel easier to leave the office instead of a coffee shop or a restaurant, and though Tyrion hasn't been cruel, she feels uneasy. “That's your plan, too, isn't it?” 

Tyrion smiles, wide and insincere. “My plans and my father's so rarely intersect. However, since Jaime has decided he's too sensitive and artistically-inclined for a life behind a desk, perhaps there's hope.”

“I think it's more that he's doing something he loves, don't you?” She tries to frame it as a gentle nudge, but she can't quite hide all of her annoyance. 

“Jaime's never liked to be tied down,” Tyrion says blithely and the implication of that hurts in multiple ways. She glances at Jaime, finds him bristling. 

“I've just never found the right roper before,” Jaime shoots back, and though he says it to his brother, his eyes track to hers, worried. 

“Brienne does look like she has the strength for it,” Tyrion agrees. 

Brienne's face heats and she wraps her hands around themselves. 

“You've made your point about how much you disapprove of my career choices,” Jaime says tightly. “Can we move on?”

“I'm proud of Jaime,” Brienne interjects, not able to let it go. Tyrion looks genuinely startled by that; Jaime looks floored. “He's going after a difficult dream, because he wants it. I admire him.” Brienne directs the last to Jaime. He swallows and nods once at her. 

“Well,” Tyrion says, drawing the word out. “Isn't that interesting.”

“It's the truth,” Brienne murmurs, staring down at her hands clasped together in her lap. 

“We should go.” Jaime's voice is loud in the sudden quiet. 

“But we've only just gotten started,” Tyrion protests. “I have so many questions for Brienne.” 

Jaime shoves back from the desk. “That's exactly why we're going now. You're best in small doses. Come to my show Friday, you can ask her more then.” He comes around and holds out his hand to Brienne, and though she doesn't need it to rise, she takes it anyway, steadier with his palm pressed against hers. 

Tyrion stays on the couch, his neck craned back to look at them, and she feels every inch of her height. “It was nice to meet you,” she tells him and he smiles wryly. 

“I appreciate the polite lie. I look forward to talking to you again. Maybe next time we'll be allowed a full conversation by my parole officer.” 

Jaime huffs, annoyed, but she ignores him. “I look forward to you seeing your brother perform. Maybe you'll better appreciate why he's making this choice.” 

“I certainly better appreciate why he's made other choices now,” Tyrion says. 

He's still sitting there when Jaime leads her out the door.

* * *

“I'm sorry about my brother,” Jaime says when they're outside and heading to her truck. He's easing back into himself, his tone backing down to his normal drawl.

“It's fine. Mine wasn't any better when you met him.” 

Jaime shoots her an amused smile. “True enough.” She can tell there's still something on his mind, so when he goes quiet again she doesn't push it. They get into her truck – they'd agreed he'd leave his at the office – and she follows his directions to his building. They're nearly there when he finally says: “Did you mean that, about... the proud thing?”

Brienne flicks on her signal and waits for an opening to turn into his garage. “Absolutely. I've watched you work for this since that first night, and I know your history hurts as much as it helps.” She glances at him, and he's soaking in her every word. “Of course I'm proud of you,” she says, fiercely sincere. 

The car behind them honks loudly and Brienne sees it's her turn to go, so she hurries in, using his code to open the garage gate, and then parks in his designated spot. 

“Thank you,” he tells her quietly, kissing her fingers.

Jaime lives on the top floor of the building, but when he unlocks his door and opens it for her, she steps inside expecting a penthouse and discovers it's simply spacious. 

They take their shoes off in the entry hallway, and Brienne follows him in, clutching close the small bag she brought as she peers around. 

“This is it,” he says, gesturing grandly. “Where the--”

“If you say 'where the magic happens,' I'm going home,” she warns him, and he laughs a little. 

“What do you think?”

“I thought it would be bigger,” she admits. 

“Six words to wound a man.” 

Brienne snickers. His home really is smaller than she'd expected. The living room has a fireplace and a full-length leather couch – she recalls that's where he'd been when they'd had their phone sex and she has to quickly look away – as well as a big TV and a few other simple pieces of furniture, but it's not overwhelming. His guitar is on a stand in the corner, and there's a sheaf of papers spread out on the coffee table. The kitchen off to her right is moderately sized and looks like it gets used regularly. There's one other hall that has two doors on the side and one at the end that's partially open. It's big for an apartment, but not extravagant. Somewhere she can relax, even if it's much nicer than her work-in-progress home. She'd been worried that part of the reason he hadn't invited her here since the bull-riding night had been because he thought she wouldn't belong in this part of his life. 

It's much homier than his office, too. There are photos of what she guesses are his family, a couple of professional pictures of Belle, and one of Jaime as a kid at the Grand Ol' Opry. She grins a little when she steps up to examine it, the way his eyes are so wide and full of wonder, his too-big cowboy hat threatening to swallow his whole head. 

“I see why they didn't have you wear the hat much,” she says when he stands next to her, and he nudges her with his elbow. 

“Are you making fun of an innocent child?”

“Not making fun, just agreeing with your handlers.” 

He makes a face and takes her wrist gently. “Do you want the official tour?” 

“Does it end in your bedroom?” 

Jaime lifts an eyebrow. “That can be arranged.” 

He shows her the small office off of the hallway, crowded with musical gear and books of all types, gestures at the other door and says it's a closet, and then pushes open the last door to his bedroom. Belle lifts her head from where she's sprawled on the bed, sees them, and scrambles down, her tail wagging so hard her whole body twists. 

“Wow,” Jaime says lightly. “She never greets me like that.” 

Brienne kneels down and is swamped by an armful of happy dog. She scratches Belle all over, gets a face full of wet tongue in return. “It's just because it's different, is all. I've never been here before.” 

“I should have invited you sooner,” Jaime says, leaning against the doorframe. He's watching them with eyes bright as a low-burning coal; not just desire, but something else that resonates in her chest. 

“Why didn't you? I offered to come.” Belle flops down on the rug, belly-up. 

Jaime shrugs. “I like your house. How easy everything feels there. And I was worried things might be different here in the city.” 

Brienne stands, shoos Belle down when she hops a little to try to get more petting. “It's just us.” 

“I know, but.” He waves his hand down his own body. “This isn't your style.” 

She sets her bag down on the dresser near the door, steps near and grips his tie between two fingers, dragging the silk between them. “I don't hate it,” she admits, biting her lip. She tugs at the knot at his throat, and his Adam's apple bobs against her knuckles. Brienne doesn't have a lot of experience with ties, but she eventually gets it undone while Jaime patiently stands there, his pupils going wide. The top buttons of his shirt open under her questing fingers, exposing his undershirt. His nostrils flare when he inhales deep. “A lot more clothes to take off, though.”

“I'm not complaining. Gets your hands on me more.” 

They're so close together she can feel his heat, but the only place they're touching is where her fingertips are resting lightly at the exposed skin of his chest, golden against his white shirt. She presses a little harder and feels the pounding beat of his heart. 

There had been a part of her that had been afraid of seeing him here, too; of discovering some side of him in this world that's so different from what she thinks of as her Jaime that it would permanently alter their relationship. It's a relief to know that he's still the same man at the core, no matter how he talks, or whether he's dressed to the nines or naked in bed. That the constant in all these versions of himself is the best part of him, the part that she dreams about, and thinks of, and--

Brienne shuts the rest of that thought down before it can form more than a shadow she's not ready to face. She wraps her hands in the ends of his tie to pull him in for a hard kiss. 

“Now I like it even better,” he says, smirking, and she kisses the smirk from his lips, too, swallows his gasping breath on her tongue as she maneuvers him onto the bed, finishes unbuttoning his shirt and mouths at his nipples through the cotton underneath.

“Take this off,” she tells him. He does: suit jacket to undershirt, until his chest is laid bare to her. The tattoo on his bicep twists when he folds his arms under his head, waiting for her next move. 

She wants him so much, desire laced with a shimmer of something more, but she focuses on the ache between her thighs, takes off her jeans while he watches. 

“Condoms?”

He glances at the small nightstand next to the bed. When she opens it, there are a handful of foil wrappers inside, and lube, and. Well.

“What do we have here?” she asks, holding up the brightly-colored vibrator.

“It's not a pen.” He grins at her, wicked and charming, and she kisses him, harder still, teeth and tongue and bruising pressure. Jaime unwinds his arms to grip her waist, tugs her back a little. “There's no rush,” he says, but she has to keep this moving forward, because her heart is a grenade in her chest, and he's got three more weeks in Nashville before he'll be gone, taking the pin with him. 

“Have you used one of these before? On yourself,” she quickly adds. 

“No,” he admits. “I bought it last week, in case you wanted it. What about you? On a man.” 

She shakes her head, no, and turns the vibrator on. The buzz shoots straight to her cunt. Jaime licks his lips. “We'll work our way up to more,” she says, and presses it to the inside of his thigh, the fabric of his slacks muffling the noise, but not the feeling, because he jumps a little at the touch of it. “Tell me if it's too much.” 

He nods, but he doesn't stop her once. Not when she undoes his pants and rubs the vibrator along the tender skin of his abdomen until he's trembling; not when they work together to tug off his clothes and she presses it gently just below his balls and he shouts with pleasure; not when she takes his cock in her mouth and rests the vibrator against his shaft, feeling it in her teeth as she licks and sucks until he goes rigid and comes hot against her tongue, hands twisted in the silk sheets. 

“Jesus Christ,” he pants when she shuts the vibrator off and rubs her hand across her swollen lips. “Brienne, I--” He sits up and grabs her shirt, pulling her in to kiss her wildly. He takes the vibrator from her and rucks her shirt up and over her head. “My turn,” he tells her. 

They shift positions, him straddling her hips, her lying on the bed in the echoes of his heat. The curve of his thighs are damp with sweat and she draws her fingers through it, focusing on the hair of his legs tickling her palms instead of the way her heart keeps skipping beats as she struggles to rein it in. He leans over the side of the mattress and then straightens again, his tie dangling from his hand. 

“If you don't want to do this, you can say no,” he starts and she almost laughs. Every no she's ever said to him has only been out of fear, not a lack of wanting. 

“I thought I was going to tie you up?” she asks. 

“You will, don't worry.” He drags the cloth over her breasts, the silk smooth against her nipples. “I was thinking more as a blindfold.” 

The idea makes her feel suddenly exposed, as though not being able to see herself means he'll see her better, give him x-ray vision into what she won't even admit in her own thoughts. Her hesitance must be clear because he drops the tie again. 

“We don't need to,” he assures her, eyes and hands gentle on her body, soothing away the tension. “Just relax, darlin', I'll take care of you.”

Part of her wants him to with a fierce need – to hand over all her worries into his strong hands; to hand over the part of her she's never given anyone else. It could be hollowing herself out, though, making her weak when she most needs to be strong. _Three weeks_ rings loudly in her head, a warning bell she can't ignore. Three weeks and he'll be off, expanding the boundaries of his world while she stays firmly in her own. She has to look away from his soft gaze up towards the ceiling, to avoid what she knows is unavoidable. 

Brienne swallows, but there's too much inside of her to leave space for air. Too much and all of it terrifying. “Jaime,” she manages, and he climbs off to lie down next to her, rubbing his hand in long strokes down her chest. “I'm sorry,” she whispers. 

“For what? Giving me the best blowjob of my life?” 

She huffs, a reluctant laugh, and turns her head to kiss him, more tenderly this time. “You're welcome,” she tells him, and he smiles against her mouth. 

“I was hoping to reciprocate, though.” 

“Later,” she promises. “Can we just lay here right now?” 

He slides his arms around her, turns her onto her side, facing away, until she's cocooned in his embrace, Jaime a comforting blanket at her back. He rests his chin on her shoulder. “I just want you here,” he says softly into her ear. “I don't care what else we do.” 

Brienne pulls his arms more tightly around her body. She clings to him to keep him there – and keep herself there, too. When it's a fight that requires her body or her mind or her determination, she doesn't consider any option other than facing it. When her heart is on the line, her first instinct is to run. And her heart is front and center now. 

Love is a ledge, one she's terrified to step out onto. If they can make all of this work – the bar, his career, the ways they spark and the ways they soothe – maybe she'll be braver then, ready to meet him there, to believe that he'll meet her, even when it's dark around them and hard to see where they're going. Here in his apartment, in his bed, in his arms, it almost seems safe. She can almost see the path forward. But she shrinks back from the edge, back into the dark, protected corners with her doubts, and she holds them both here and tries not to think of the fall.


	19. Can you feel it in the air?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bar is busy almost from the moment she opens the doors. The show is sold out because it's _his_ night, as though a person can own a day of the week. But if anybody could, it would be Jaime, and every patron in the bar knows it. There's no one here by accident tonight – they've all come for him.

Tyrion doesn't show up to Jaime's last show. 

Brienne frowns at the terse message Jaime shows her from Tyrion – _Can't make it tonight. Hammer already falling. Best of luck._

“It's fine,” Jaime tells her, and she gives him a sympathetic smile. 

“I know how it feels,” she assures him. “All too well.”

“Yeah I guess you do.” He stares down at his phone and then tucks it in his pocket. “But fuck 'em, right? My father's already disowned me, what's one less Lannister?” 

Jaime had told her that his meeting with Tywin had gone as badly as expected; that though his father hadn't yelled, his rage and disapproval had been clear enough anyway. But Jaime had avoided every other mention of it after that, and Brienne hadn't pushed. 

“Jaime--”

“It's fine,” he repeats with a reckless grin. “We've got enough to worry about tonight.” 

His brother may not be there, but everyone else is. The bar is busy almost from the moment she opens the doors. The show is sold out because it's _his_ night, as though a person can own a day of the week. But if anybody could, it would be Jaime, and every patron in the bar knows it. There's no one here by accident tonight – they've all come for him. 

There's the Colt Thunder Fan Club, decked out in their shirts – even Ellaria, who's brought a man Brienne hasn't seen before. He's also wearing a Colt Thunder t-shirt, and he's got dark, amused eyes and a sharp jaw when he saunters up to her bar. 

“So you're the one Ellaria keeps telling me about,” he says after Brienne greets him, and her smile drops in surprise. 

“Excuse me?”

He leans one elbow on the bar and waves at Ellaria, who waves back. “She told me the bartender here was magnificent.” 

Brienne blushes and looks down at her big hands on the bar. “I, uh.”

The man laughs, not unkindly. “And also that you were shy and I shouldn't do this to you.” 

“And I was right,” Ellaria says, coming up and sliding her arm through his. “Please forgive me for subjecting you to him. I thought you could behave for one night, Oberyn.” 

“I don't know why you would think that,” he murmurs, kissing her hungrily. Brienne's cheeks are on fire again and she has to look away. 

“D-do you want anything to drink?” she asks, her voice embarrassingly high. 

They order, and Ellaria shoos Oberyn back to the group while Brienne makes the drinks. “Don't mind him,” she says. “He has an excess of charm.” 

Brienne thinks of Jaime and grins a little. “I know the type.” 

“I suppose you do,” Ellaria says thoughtfully. “Colt seems like he'd be much the same.” She sounds almost wistful. 

“Much.” 

“I'm just grateful Margaery puts up with it in Oberyn,” Ellaria sighs, and Brienne fumbles the pour, spilling a little beer down the side of the glass. “You do know she and I are dating?”

Brienne makes a vague, confused noise, before saying, “I didn't know... with Oberyn.”

“It's an open situation,” Ellaria says. Her elegant chin is raised, her eyes waiting for Brienne to judge her harshly. 

“Okay,” Brienne says. If they're all happy, it's none of her business. “You're all adults.” 

That seems to satisfy Ellaria and she relaxes again. “Margaery says they're announcing the tour.” 

“Tonight. North until December and then the southern states through spring.” 

“Have you and Colt talked about your arrangements?”

Brienne frowns. “Arrangements?”

“For what happens if... well, you know.” Ellaria waves her hand airily. “Life on the road and all.”

Brienne stares across the room at Jaime, who's laughing with Margaery up on stage, while Jon plugs in their instruments. There are fans hovering nearby, good-looking men and beautiful women, waiting for their turn to admire him. Jaime says something else and then his gaze wanders, but it doesn't rest on the eager faces in the crowd, it finds her at the bar, and when he discovers she's watching him, a stunning smile blossoms on his face. 

“Ah,” Ellaria says, as Brienne waves a little at Jaime, who blows her a kiss back before turning to Margaery again. “No arrangements needed, I see.”

Somehow that makes Brienne flush even harder and she cleans up the mess she made and takes Ellaria's credit card to open a tab. “Do you really think that?” Brienne quietly asks when she hands the card back. “That it will be fine?”

Ellaria lifts her brows, surprised. “I've had men look at me all my life, I know the look of a man who will not stray, no matter how many naked and willing women you put in front of him. That fish is well and truly hooked.” 

“I didn't fish for him,” Brienne protests and Ellaria smiles, an amused twist of her pretty mouth. 

“I imagine you didn't. But you've got him and his heart anyway.” 

Margaery walks up as she's saying it, and wraps her arm around Ellaria's waist. “Ooh, are we talking about how in love with you Jaime is?” she asks cheerfully. 

Brienne's own heart jumps, banging against her ribcage. “Y-you think--” 

“Brienne.” Margaery gives her an incredulous look. “How many nights have we played here now? How many practices do I have to be there when he's texting with you? He may not have said it with words, but he's saying it anyway. Look at him.” Her eyes search Brienne's face. “Maybe look at yourself, too,” she adds pointedly, and then pats Brienne's hand. 

Ellaria nods emphatically when Brienne glances her way. “Think about it,” Ellaria says gently. 

Margaery winks and grabs the water Brienne automatically has gotten for her; it's been enough weeks that Brienne's familiar with all of the band's pre-show habits. Margaery kisses Ellaria and then gives Brienne a quick wave before hurrying back to the stage. 

“I'll stop taking up your time,” Ellaria says. She takes her drink and then hesitates one more moment. “If I might give you a piece of advice? You only have a few weeks left before the tour, you should consider saying what you need to before he goes.”

The next customer quickly swallows up the space Ellaria leaves, and Brienne tries to focus on the crowd, is grateful when her dad comes in and helps her with the crush. But it's hard not to just stare at Jaime, to listen for what both women told her he's saying. 

He comes up behind the bar just before the show is due to start and she excuses herself to talk to him, tucked into the far corner, though there's really no privacy with the building as full as it is. This is the busiest Selwyn's has ever been, and with Jaime leaving, likely the busiest it ever will be. But that's not his fault, and she forces it aside. 

“You ready?” she asks him. 

“I'm nervous,” he admits softly. “About what everyone will say when they find out. It feels like I have to strip naked in front of a crowd. I'd probably be _less_ worried if I had to do that.”

She grins a little. “I'm sure they'd rather you did that, too.” 

“Fulfilling Colt Thunder's destiny, I suppose.” 

Brienne rests her palm over his heart and he covers her hand immediately with his own. “It doesn't matter what your name is. All these people,” she indicates the full bar with her eyes, “they're here because of your music, and you. Not your name.”

His chest expands under her fingers. “Part of me doesn't want any of this to change.” 

“Me either. But it's the right choice.” 

“That's all I needed to hear.” Jaime leans forward to kiss her, quick but soft. “Here we go.” 

The lights go down a minute later and the crowd erupts into thunderous applause as the band takes the stage. Margaery gives someone in the crowd a small wave, and then brings her fiddle up, starting with a slow, plaintive melody that tickles an old memory. The song isn't one Jaime's played here before, yet it feels somehow familiar. Brienne can't figure out what it is, until Ilyn follows on his steel guitar, and Jaime on his acoustic, and she gasps just as Jaime steps forward and says, “Good evening, y'all. I'm Jaime Lannister, and we're gonna put on a hell of a show for you tonight.” The music dips just then, and the crowd's shocked murmuring is clear, but Jaime doesn't give them much time to worry about it, because Sandor slams in with the drumbeat and the lights flare, and they're rocketing off. 

It's a song from Jaime's very first album, remixed for his adult range and sensibilities, and Brienne grins through all of it, singing along quietly as her memories of the song come flooding back. It's a party song about dancing and laughter and good times; Jaime's updated the lyrics to be more suggestive that the party doesn't end when the lights go down. When they bring the song to a crashing stop, there's a beat of hushed silence before the audience roars in deafening approval. 

The concert is a barnburner. The first song ends up being the only old song of Jaime's that they play, and he's tailored the rest of the setlist to be as adult and explosive as possible. There's a slow song midway through, one of Brienne's favorites, about dark nights and the hope of sunrise, that he sings mostly looking at her, and she thinks about what Margaery said. 

They play two encores, and by the end of it, the band is a sweaty mess. 

“As you all know,” Jaime says once the last note has faded, holding up his hand to quiet the crowd's cheering, “this is our last show here for a while.” The audience boos lustily and he beams. “We're starting a tour in a few weeks. Tell your friends to look for us in their hometowns. We had an amazing time playing here.” He looks over at Brienne, and she struggles to smile in return. “We'll be back,” he promises. He surveys the audience, his own smile softening. “Thank you for everything. As I said at the start: I'm Jaime Lannister, and don't forget to tip the bartender. She's very good.” There are some whistles and applause and Brienne's still blushing when the house lights come all the way on and the crowd splits between the bar and the stage. 

Brienne overhears multiple conversations about Jaime as she closes people out for the night. Most are giddy about the discovery of who he really is, shocked that he's grown up so well. One man comments to his date that he hopes Jaime re-releases all of his old songs. A pair of women seem dismayed that now they can only think of the little curly-haired boy when they look at him. That one makes Brienne chuckle a little when her back is turned to charge their cards. 

Catelyn comes up when things are quieter, flushed and a little glassy-eyed. “How on earth did you keep that a secret all this time?” she demands in a slightly-too-loud voice when she hands over her card. 

“It wasn't always easy,” Brienne tells her. “But it was important to Jaime that he establish himself as Colt first.” 

“I'll miss seeing him here. It's been a bit like re-living my youth.” 

“Did you spend a lot of time in bars?”

“How do you think I met Ned?” Catelyn says with a mischievous smile. Brienne glances over at the man, who's standing slightly off to the side with his arms folded over his chest, watching the small group still chatting with Jaime. “He may not look it,” Catelyn adds in a conspiratorial whisper, “but he's got a bit of broody singer-songwriter in him.” 

Brienne pictures the serious-faced man up on a stage, singing songs about death and loss and winter. She imagines him sounding like Big Al from Country Bear Jamboree, and has to smother a laugh. 

“I hope Selwyn's will keep finding new acts to entertain you with,” Brienne says as she hands the receipt over. She's started working on her pitch with Gal, and though she means it, she doesn't like how desperate it still sounds when she says it out loud. 

“I look forward to seeing them play here,” Catelyn says. She finishes signing the receipt and hands it back. “This is a lovely bar, and Colt-- _Jaime_ is right: you're very good at what you do.” She's somewhat drunk, but she looks so sincere Brienne believes her. 

“That's very kind,” Brienne says, smiling a little, and Catelyn pats her enthusiastically on the arm. 

Ned comes to usher Catelyn away, but not before Brienne catches her saying in a loud whisper, “You should get your guitar out when we get back.” 

Everyone slowly trickles home after that: the fans, the band, Jon and Selwyn, and Brienne locks the door behind them. When she turns, Jaime is leaning against the bar, working on the glass of whiskey she'd poured him. The last one, for a while at least. This might be the last time she has him all to herself here in the bar. It might be the last time they're together in the bar at all, if she can't save it. 

He watches her over the rim of his glass and everything she doesn't want to think about rushes forward; her heart thumps hard holding back the onslaught. She'd rather memorize how he looks: sweat-damp hair curling at his temples, white t-shirt clinging to the line of his muscles, his eyes twinkling with a smile hidden by the whiskey. 

“Stay like that,” she tells him, and gets her phone. When she's done taking his picture, he sets the glass down and pushes off of the bar. 

“Any notes for me?” he asks in a low voice. They walk towards each other with measured steps, and her blood heats with every movement closer. 

“When did you rearrange the first song?” Brienne's aiming for casual but she's not even close. She can feel his hands on her skin already; she can see in the twitch of his fingers that he feels it, too. Her mouth goes dry.

“During the demo recording. It was Varys' idea.” Jaime's voice rasps over her body, raising the hairs on her arms. Brienne shivers. 

They stop a foot from each other, not touching, but the space between them crackles with anticipation. “It was good. You were good,” she tells him. 

“I'm better than good,” he says, curling his fingers through her belt loops and pulling her close. 

She rests her hands on his chest. His heart is loud under her palm. “You seem pretty confident there, Colt. Do you want my notes or not?” 

He smirks, leaning forward to rub his nose along her jaw, up the curve to her ear. “Take me apart, Barkeep,” he murmurs, and she digs her nails into his chest and does just that. 

She claws down his torso to his belt and he gasps when she tugs it open just enough to shove her hand down his pants, cupping his hardening cock. Jaime yanks her flannel shirt off of her shoulders and bites the revealed skin, a sharply delicate sensation that makes her toes curl. They're both frantic, fingers and lips impatient to touch wherever they can reach. He pulls her towards the bar and she shoves him up against it when they get closer, making him grunt. 

“So the bar-sex moratorium is over, then?” he asks with a smug lilt that she wants to devour. 

“Shut up,” she whispers and he's still grinning until she roughly tugs at his bottom lip with her teeth, pulling a primal hum from deep in his lungs. She doesn't want to think about the way his curving smile twists in her chest. She wants to fuck him here until they're both senseless, to bind him to this place she loves as tightly as he's wrapped around her heart. 

He turns his attention to her mouth, his hands fisting in her tank-top as she works his cock, silky and hot in her hand, free of his jeans. He tastes like whiskey, and burns as sweet, and she's drunk on his tongue already. 

Brienne slides her other hand around to his back pocket and pulls his wallet free. “Do you-?” she pants and he nods against her neck where his teeth are scraping sharp lines down the tendon. She fumbles for the condom and then drops his wallet to the floor. 

They wrestle each other free of their clothes, heedless of the napkins they send fluttering everywhere, the bar stool that tips to the side with a crash. The whiskey glass tumbles off the back of the bar to the floor. 

“I'll pay for that,” he pants. 

“You will,” she promises. Her flannel gets pulled off, his jeans get tugged down, and then _she's_ against the bar, the smooth wood rigid along her back as he drags his tongue over her clavicle before whispering, “Turn around” into the wet skin. 

Brienne does without hesitation, arching back into his grip when he wraps his arm like steel around her waist. 

“I think about this every time I'm here,” he growls, jerking her pants down with his other hand, and she rolls back against him, his cock hard against her ass. 

“Me too,” she tells him, her voice low and breathless. “So many nights.” 

How many more nights will she think about it now, now that she hears his moan when he nips at her ear, now that she sees his long fingers ripping open the condom packet in front of her. Brienne doesn't let up, rubbing against him until he has to grip the bar with one white-knuckled hand. “Fuck, hold on,” he begs, and she stills. His breath is fire on the bare skin of her shoulders as he fumbles to roll the condom on. 

Then he moves his hands to her hips and she braces herself as he thrusts into her on a long, guttural groan, filling her until his pelvis is pressed against her ass. He presses his forehead against the back of her neck, that same matching curve of his body when he stands behind her in her kitchen, when they tangle together in bed. She writhes against him, urgent and desperate, and he palms her ass, choking her name in a frenzied rush as he pulls out and plunges in again.

In the reflection of the mirror behind the bar, their faces are visible over the unevenly arranged bottles. Brienne's hair is a mess, her eyes hazy with lust. Her lips are so kiss-swollen it’s obscene. Jaime is wild and unfettered behind her, already losing control with every driving movement. One hand is clenched at her shoulder, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise. She hopes it does; she wants to press her fingers to her body later and feel the memory of him. His beautiful face is tense with avid hunger – for her, she knows, and it unleashes her as she slams back against him, welcoming his fierce strength in response. This is what she wants – their cries and strangled curses echoing off of the glass, scrabbling with sweaty hands at the slick wood of the bar, Jaime's fingers on her clit as he pounds into her from behind. The filthy slap and slide of their bodies fills this space that's held so much music and laughter and _him_ now in every corner of it, just like he's filled every corner of her heart, and Brienne comes violently, throwing herself back into Jaime and shaking apart, and he squeezes her breathless as he joins her.

He slumps over her back when he's done and she rests her chest against the bar, gulping down air, his weight comforting on top of her. They're both trembling, though not all of hers is exhaustion. 

Jaime presses a line of open-mouthed kisses along the top of her back, his hands soothing where they'd left an ache. He never hurts her on purpose; never leaves her pain too long unaddressed. He respects her strength and her weaknesses both, and never seems repulsed by either. Her life will be so much changed when he's gone. Gently, he pulls out of her with a hiss. He runs his hand down her back, and she misses him already. 

He tugs her pants up, and she uses her limp arms to help him. Jaime pauses to press a kiss to the red marks on her hip. “Sorry,” he murmurs, and she combs her fingers through his hair. 

“There's nothing to be sorry for,” she reassures him. “I wanted it.” 

Jaime gives her a quick grin, but he looks as overwhelmed as she is. “Better than I imagined it,” he says, tucking himself back in and zipping up. He kisses her sweetly, taking his time; touches her gently, taking her measure. She breathes him in, eyes closed, committing it all to her grasping heart. 

He gets her shirt and helps her pull it back on, kisses her shoulder before he covers it, kisses her wrist and then buttons the ends. She gets his wallet; he recovers his hat from behind the bar. 

They clean the area up and then they stand in the middle of Selwyn's, holding hands and looking around. 

“This is it,” she says and he glances at her from under his hat. 

“That sounds awfully final.” 

“Not final, but...” Brienne exhales shakily. “Uncertain.” 

He tugs her to face him and cups her cheeks in his hands. “We'll be back here again,” he tells her, searching her eyes. This close she can see all the swirling color of them, the sea-green and glimmering gold, the hope and determination. “We've just gotta do a few things first, that's all.” 

“You make it sound so simple.” 

“It isn't, but it is. Brienne, I-” he hesitates, before he tilts her head down to kiss her forehead. “I believe in us.” 

She presses her lips together, a dam against the flood of emotions she's not ready to unleash. Not here, not tonight when she feels so fragile already. “Let's get Belle and go home.” 

They gather the dog and start for her truck. Jaime pauses before getting in and Brienne watches him from inside the cab, the way his eyes track the glowing sign, the edges of the building lit by the halogen lamp. There's a small, wistful smile on his face that she understands all too well. Once he's gotten his fill, he climbs in and gives her a smile. Brienne pulls out onto the road for her house, and she sees Jaime staring out the side mirror until the bar disappears behind them.


	20. It took us all night long to say goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She and Jaime talk every day, Brienne hiding in the back room of the bar if she has to, just to hear his voice a little more clearly. He comes to Selwyn's a couple of times, and they hold hands over the top of the bar during the performances; he comes home with her those evenings afterward and they pretend like time isn't growing short.

Brienne doesn't see as much of Jaime as either of them want after that. Even though he's quit his job, there are only a few weeks before he leaves, and Varys has him hopping – practice with the band, writing new music, all the minutiae of preparing for the tour. The news that Jaime is performing again spreads like fire through a dry field. She starts hearing his name on the radio on her drive to work. 

_“Jaime Lannister is back from the dead!”_

_“Jaime Lannister is all grown up and has been living a secret musical life, performing under an assumed name at small, out-of-town bars.”_

_“What's in store for Jaime Lannister now? Another attempt at a career as a country star. He's launching a tour next week starting in Kentucky and working his way up north over the next few months. Will he be playing new songs or just old hits? Buy a ticket and find out.”_

The air around him is mostly curious, though there are plenty of jokes, too. A few of his child-star songs start popping up on playlists, and more than one person makes a comment about how he's finally filled in his hat, and jeans. One morning, a DJ crew discovers his stage name and they spend half an hour asking callers to share their own stripper-based stage names in a battle against Colt Thunder. Colt wins. 

Jaime does a few interviews, and she listens to them in her home, waking up too early to do so because she already misses his voice. A few days before he's set to leave, he goes on the local morning news to talk to the entertainment reporter. The woman is beside herself and flirts relentlessly with him, which Brienne doesn't blame her for, but Jaime deflects it with easy charm. He calls Brienne afterward to ask if she watched – “I wore that plaid shirt you like,” he tells her, and she can picture his grin – and she misses him more. 

It's not just Jaime who's swamped with commitments – Brienne's busy working the bar on her regular hours and working to save it with the time she has left. There's a noticeable drop in revenue the Friday after Jaime's last show and it sends a barely-controlled streak of panic through her. She and Gal hash out payment and a complete marketing plan over email and phone; he gives her a heavily discounted rate, but there's no money to spare, so she accepts the gift without complaint. Once they get the bones of their plan in place, she has to start implementing it, which requires – among other things – visits to find out where bar-goers hang out now and why; discussions with other bar owners to talk about their techniques; and endless meetings with the people Selwyn's owes money to to discuss repayment. It's exhausting work that asks of her all the things she's worst at, but there's no one else she trusts to do it, not even her dad – who looks overwhelmed when she presents him the plan – so she buckles down and handles it all. 

She and Jaime talk every day, Brienne hiding in the back room of the bar if she has to, just to hear his voice a little more clearly. He comes to Selwyn's a couple of times, and they hold hands over the top of the bar during the performances; he comes home with her those evenings afterward and they pretend like time isn't growing short. 

Even with the distance, her feelings for him only grow, a constant drum at the back of her mind that thunders more loudly with every beat. Her heart is anxious and wanting. She thinks constantly about Ellaria's warning, but the moment never feels right to tell him. She doesn't want to ruin their time together if he doesn't truly feel the same; she doesn't want to make all of this harder if he does. So Brienne bears it the same way she does everything else: determined, and alone. 

The Saturday before he's scheduled to leave, she takes the day off so they can spend it together. Friday night, Jaime comes to the bar and then home with her, and the plan is for them to stay together until his van leaves early Sunday morning. It's the most concentrated amount of time they've spent with each other since this started. 

It's the end of September and the weather and leaves are already starting to turn. When they wake Saturday morning, Jaime kicks Belle out of the room and then joins Brienne back in her bed, and they move slowly and sweetly in the sunlight. Brienne has to bite her tongue when she comes, to keep the words safely in her mouth. 

Jaime rests his head on her chest after and she combs her fingers through his hair, wonders if he can hear her feelings through the thin skin stretched over her heart. 

They have brunch at Ferny's, smiling and exchanging kisses, unable to let go of each other's hands. It's odd, and oddly wonderful, to not have to go back to the bar for the day, to be free for an afternoon to spend it as she wants. They go for a walk, their arms linked as Belle tugs at the end of her leash, sniffing every pole and tree they pass. The first few leaves have fallen, and she sniffs those, too. With the light shining down through the still mostly-full trees, the ground is paved with orange and gold.

Jaime drives them back to his apartment that afternoon. 

“You can take my truck back to your place after I leave,” he'd told her when they'd made their plans for today. “It doesn't need to sit unused the whole time I'm gone, and it'll save you some miles on yours.” 

That had been two weeks ago, when Brienne had thought that time wouldn't pass in a blink. She hasn't been in his truck before, she realizes, and laughs a little to herself when she climbs in. She's been the one who's driven them everywhere so far. Jaime's a fine driver, though he tends to get uncomfortably close behind other people, just like everyone else on this stretch of highway, and Brienne forces herself to relax on the trip into Nashville. 

“Did you figure out who's driving the van?” she asks as the road passes under their wheels. It's early enough in the afternoon that there's minimal traffic into downtown. 

“Ilyn,” Jaime tells her with a grin. 

“Probably not a rage driver, then. Although I bet he uses his horn a lot,” she says. 

“I guess we'll find out. At least we all have separate rooms booked. It's gonna be bad enough spending hours trapped together in the van.” 

“I'm sure Margaery will do ninety percent of the talking for all of you.” 

Jaime snickers and nods. “I can't wait to see how long it takes Sandor to be done with her. Odds are he just brings earplugs.” He drums his fingers on the steering wheel and then turns the music off. “Listen... we haven't really talked about the tour itself.” 

Brienne tenses, her fingertips pressing hard into the plastic of the door's armrest. “We haven't,” she agrees. 

“I just--” Jaime sighs, drags his hand through his hair. “God, this is weird and I can't decide if it'll make things worse or not.” 

“Well you have to tell me now,” she says, and he laughs a little. 

“I know. I just want you to know that I'm not gonna... do anything while I'm touring.” He looks over at her for a moment before focusing on the road again. “I would never cheat on you, with anyone.” 

Brienne stares out of the window and thinks of Ellaria saying _no arrangements needed_. “I know you won't,” she says. She meets his worried gaze. “Jaime, I know. I trust you.”

“You should,” he tells her firmly. “Just like I trust you.” 

She snorts. “Yeah, you know Jon might start looking good to me after a couple of months on my own again.” 

Jaime pokes her thigh and Belle looks up at him, offended that her nap has been disturbed by his arm reaching over her to Brienne. “You laugh, but what if some _other_ handsome, hapless singer comes in needing your help?”

“I don't know, how bad is his stage name?” 

Jaime chuckles and pokes her again, and she captures his hand this time, holding it tight. He squeezes her fingers and they sit in the quiet as Jaime drives them into the oncoming evening.

* * *

They take Belle for a walk around Jaime's neighborhood once they're back, and then they order delivery and wait for it by cuddling on the couch, talking quietly. 

“How's the bar doing?” he asks. 

“It's too soon to tell,” she says. “It's a lot of work and the payoff won't be for weeks. Probably months. But at least I'm doing something.” 

Jaime is leaning back against the corner of the couch, and Brienne is resting against him, nestled between his legs. He trails his fingers up and down her arms, soothing. “The Friday act seems good.”

“They are,” she agrees. “Though they obviously don't have your following yet. But I like them, and the crowd does, too; I think they'll grow an audience. They're something else.” Jaime had run into the pair of women while performing in Nashville one night, and he'd suggested them to take his Friday night spot. Tall and Small, they call themselves, Dacey Mormont on banjo and Walda Frey on fiddle. They have great chemistry, an almost vaudevillian stage act, and play energetic bluegrass. Brienne's glad that they're so different from Jaime. It makes it easier not to compare them. 

“I'm glad I could help somehow.” Under her back, his chest rises and falls. “I wish you'd let me do more.” 

“I've got a plan. We don't need cash right now, and there's nothing else you can do, except talk us up in interviews.” 

“I snuck you into one I did yesterday with the paper. Tried to talk the reporter into doing a piece on your family business, but I don't know if they bit.” 

Her heart expands in her chest, when she didn't think she had any more room for it. Brienne sits up and turns to face him. He's still one of the most handsome men she's ever seen, but she doesn't register it the way she used to. Now she sees him with her heart, and he's even more beautiful; sees the endless ways he reaches out to her, even when she's afraid to reach back. In the morning he'll be gone. She owes him the truth before he leaves, no matter how scary it might be to offer it. 

“Jaime.” She says his name softly, and he tilts his head a little, his brow wrinkling in confusion.

“You look so serious,” he says. “I thought the publicity would be good.”

“It is good,” she assures him. “I'm grateful. I, um.” Brienne takes a steadying breath. Her palms are sweaty when she rests them on his knees. 

The doorbell rings. 

“Hold that thought,” he says, scrambling up from the couch to go get their food. She thumps her head against the cushions and then rises to help him, fending off Belle from licking the delivery man to death, then they set up the cartons on the counter and dish the food onto paper plates – “I don't want to waste any of our time doing dishes, do you?” Jaime says meaningfully – and take their meal to the table to eat. 

Brienne doesn't want to tell him how she feels while their fingers are covered with barbecue sauce and they're play-fighting over the last of the mac and cheese, so she steers the conversation back to anything else over dinner, and Jaime doesn't seem to mind. 

When he leans back in his chair, finishing off his beer, she thinks about the first time he'd stood at her bar. “Why didn't you go with Ellaria that first night?” she asks, curious. 

Jaime nearly chokes on his drink. “What?” he gasps, pounding his chest. 

“She was flirting like crazy with you, I remember thinking it was weird that you didn't even seem interested.” 

“I wasn't,” he says, coughing one last time. “Not in her.” 

Brienne bites her lip, looking down at their empty plates. His fondness shouldn't still affect her this much, but it does. “I criticized you,” she says after a few seconds, and he snorts, loudly. 

“I recall. You also served me excellent whiskey and offered me a second chance.” Brienne glances up at him, and his eyes are gleaming. “How could I not be interested in you?”

“You have strange kinks, Colt.” 

Jaime gives her a reckless smile. “Lucky for me you seem to share them, Barkeep.” 

She leans over to kiss him, tastes the spice of the barbecue sauce, the slightly bitter beer on his tongue. “It's a good thing you walked into my bar that night, then,” she says quietly, and he looks serious when he pulls back, nodding. 

“It is.” Jaime rubs his thumb along the inside of her wrist. “While we let our food settle a little, can I show you something I've been working on?”

Brienne nods and they clean up, shove what's left in his fridge when he makes noises about her taking the leftovers, get another pair of beers. Finally, he directs her back to the couch while he gets out his guitar and rifles through the papers stacked nearby. When he sits down again, Belle comes over and lays on the floor, her head on his bare foot. _She's gonna miss him_ , Brienne thinks, and swallows hard around the sudden lump in her throat. 

“You remember when we were talking about my first album a little while ago?” he says, pausing to tune his guitar to the right key. The sound of it is different in his own apartment, but still as rich. She regrets for a moment that she didn't ask him to keep teaching her the basics. 

Brienne nods and Jaime reaches out to organize the sheets of music. 

“I've been working on this for you. Tell me what you think,” he says. He launches into a ballad Brienne is very familiar with. She'd listened to it for days on end when she was a girl, dreaming about some nameless boy that would someday dedicate it to her, before she'd grown even bigger and more awkward and realized teenage boys weren't interested in dedicating songs to large, quiet, ungainly girls. She'd only told Jaime it was her favorite of his when he'd asked. 

Jaime's altered this one a little, too. The melody is the same – more intricate to match his talents, but still recognizable. The lyrics are mostly the same as well, although as with the song he'd played at his last show, he's updated it to be more adult, and the pining that had seemed sweet when she was a girl has turned to a depthless yearning. In the hands of Jaime as a boy, it had felt like a crush, cotton candy and carnivals; with his deeper, roughened voice now, with the way he drags out words with an ache that settles in her chest, it feels like love, as endless and mysterious and stunning as the night sky. She's breathless when he brings the song to a close, when he looks up at her with hope in his eyes. 

“I love you,” she tells him, abrupt and sure and true.

She holds her breath, waiting for the fear to wash over her, but it never comes. Instead, it's as though she's opened the curtains to finally let the sun in, and it's illuminating the most natural path of this journey, one she set on before she knew her feet were even moving. It was never inevitable, though; it was a choice, one made the moment she asked him to stay. 

Jaime just... stares at her. Mouth slack, eyes impossibly wide. “Well, shit,” he says and there's the fear, not gone at all, it turns out, but waiting for exactly this, venomous and ready to strike as a rattlesnake. Jaime wraps one hand around her wrist before she can think to move. “Wait, hold on. That wasn't-- I just wanted to tell you first. You beat me to it is all.” 

Brienne breathes in hard, air fighting its way around the coiled knot in her chest. Every part of her is tight and poised to flee. “What?”

“I love you, too, Brienne. Jesus, of course I do. I've wanted to tell you for weeks, but I was waiting for the right time. I'd planned to tonight.” His fingers dig into her skin, not painful, but anchoring her. “This isn't at all how I wanted this to go. You look terrified.” 

“Your first response wasn't exactly inspiring,” she says weakly and Jaime ducks his head. 

“I'm sorry. Say it again. I'll do better this time.” 

Her heart kicks back into motion, and when she takes a breath, it flows more freely. “I'm not sure--”

He sets his guitar aside, takes her other wrist, too, slides his hands down to hers and holds them tight. “Say it again. Please.” 

Now it feels somehow impossible to form the words, like she's standing in a spotlight before a microphone beaming them out to the world. But it's still only them here; even Belle has gone off somewhere else. 

“Alright.” She fills her lungs with air and her heart with courage and says: “I love you.” 

He tugs her up against his body and kisses her tenderly. “I have never loved anyone the way I love you,” he tells her. She can't breathe again, for entirely different reasons. 

“You overcorrected,” she whispers, and he laughs softly. 

“That's not even half of how I feel, but I don't want to overwhelm you.”

She curves her hands around the back of his head, her fingers tangled in his hair, and kisses him hard. “I want you to.” 

He shakes his head, the smallest amount, but it hurts a little anyway, because she knows it's her own fear that's made him cautious. Knows that he's probably not wrong, even though she feels braver in this moment than she's ever been. 

Brienne kisses him again – and again, and again, trying to convince him until he moans and surges against her, laying her back on the couch, his body stretched out on top of hers. He's got his thigh between her legs and she pushes urgently against it. 

Jaime hums softly, leaving slow kisses over her face and along her neck, moving at an unhurried speed, as though they've got all the time in the world. She lets herself believe it, lets him dictate the lazy removal of their clothes, lets him bring her to a rolling, gradual orgasm before putting on a condom and climbing back up her body. 

He lowers his forehead to her shoulder and says, “I love you,” against her sweat-covered skin as he slides inside her. Brienne holds his body tightly to hers, holds his words tightly inside her heart. The surprise comes, finally, at how so little feels changed between them. Words have only defined what already existed here in their shared breathing, the grip of her hands on his back, his legs taut along her own. 

She says it anyway – “I love you, too,” into the curving shell of his ear – and Jaime shudders and thrusts deeper, with palms slick at her waist, filling her wholly. 

“Brienne,” he murmurs, and, “Jaime,” she whispers back, and that's love, too. It's so obvious now that they've said it that she doesn't know how she's missed it all these days. He comes, trembling and on a soft cry that unwinds the last bounds of her heart. 

When he's done, he shifts to try to reach lower, but she holds his hand to her chest. 

“Can we re-arrange?” he asks after a minute. They do, spooning on the couch. Jaime is nestled at her back, one arm her pillow, the other draped over her body. There's just enough room for the two of them, and she doesn't feel anything but content in his arms. 

“Am I the reason you didn't say anything?” she asks drowsily. 

He rubs circles on her hip, like he's soothing a nervous animal, though Brienne doesn't feel nervous at all. “I was just giving you time.”

“I don't need time, I need you,” she tells him. 

Jaime kisses the back of her hair. “You always have that.” 

The tiny voice in her head, the one she hates and is never quite free of, adds _for tonight_. 

“I do wish I'd said something sooner,” Jaime murmurs.

“It wouldn't have changed anything.” He makes a small, curious noise behind her, and she shifts in his arms to look at him. “Would you have acted any differently?” 

“I suppose not,” he says with a small, wry smile. He kisses her broken nose. “I just would have said it more.” 

“Apparently you didn't need to – Ellaria saw it at your last concert.” 

“Did _you_?” 

Brienne rubs her hand along his forearm, links her fingers over his on her leg. “I was too afraid to.”

“But you weren't tonight.” 

“I was,” she admits. “But you're leaving and I didn't want you to go without knowing.”

“Are you sure--”

“Don't ask,” she pleads. She considers for a wild, reckless moment leaving with him, leaving the bar and its problems behind, but she knows she can't. That she doesn't want to. 

“All right.” He kisses her temple, her cheek, the side of her mouth. “The invitation is open, any time.”

“It's just a few months,” she tells both of them. “And then you'll be home for the holidays.” 

“Just like the song. Maybe I'll put that on the setlist in December.” 

She imagines Jaime at her house on Christmas, in a warm sweater and thick socks, singing carols and laughing, and her throat closes with how much she wants it. 

“Let's clean up a little and then kick Belle out of bed,” he says. “There's a lot of hours left til morning.”

_Not enough_ , she thinks. _Not nearly enough_

* * *

Brienne wakes to the sounds of downtown Nashville. They'd talked and made love until early in the morning, and even then she'd been reluctant to fall asleep after, her arm wrapped tightly around his chest. 

When she sits up, she knows that he's already gone. Her stomach clenches into a tight, unhappy knot. Belle is laying at the foot of the bed, curled up into a ball. The dog lifts her head and whines a little. 

“Yeah, I know,” Brienne sighs, scratching Belle's head. 

Brienne spots a folded up piece of paper on the end table, with her name in Jaime's distinctive writing. She unfolds it and scans the brief note. 

_I couldn't bear to say goodbye. I love you. Jaime._

The knot in her stomach spins as she looks around his room. _I love you._ The words look so simple in black and white. Such a thin thread to connect them over the distance and time. Brienne's phone buzzes and she picks it up. It's a message from Jaime. 

_Good morning_ it says. _You were right – Ilyn uses his horn a lot._

She's just about to type a response when it buzzes again. 

_I miss you already._

The knot loosens and Brienne exhales slowly. Being the one left behind isn't a new feeling, but this time she feels hopeful, not abandoned. She holds onto it tightly as she gets up to start her day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to EmpressM for the idea of Jaime re-working one of Brienne's favorite old songs of his. It was put to good use. :) 
> 
> As a note, I'm taking a break from posting next Sunday. Emotionally this is a good pause, and Yuletide and the Jaime/Brienne Festive Festival fics are all about to be posted and goodness knows we'll have plenty to read. I'm still working away on this story, don't worry! I've got the next three chapters written and working on the fourth. I still haven't settled on a final chapter (or word) count but I'm definitely at least starting the last third of the story in my writing. I hope those that celebrate have a lovely holiday, that everyone holds on and just makes it to the end of 2020 because good lord do we need this year to be over, and I'll see you in the new year. Thanks for your enthusiasm and support of this very horny Hallmark fic. 🥰


	21. Nobody told me about this part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been three weeks since Jaime had woken up wrapped in Brienne's arms and had considered for a too-long moment whether he really wanted to leave. But he'd slipped out of her grasp, gotten ready, and then stared down at her long limbs and freckled body spread out in his bed, and knew the goodbye they'd said all the night before would have to be enough. If he'd woken her up, he's not sure he'd ever have gone. Definitely not on time. 
> 
> So he'd left the warm embrace of the woman he loved – who loved him back, and hadn't _that_ been a welcome punch to the heart – and gotten into a van with three people he realized he knew very little about. For all Jaime knew, Sandor could have been a very talented serial killer, or a vegan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back! 😊 And we've crested the 100k mark. Whew. Shout out as always to Brynn who did not know she was getting into this long of a fic but has been a cheerful and incredible beta for every chapter anyway. ❤️
> 
> If you'd like musical accompaniment for this chapter, you can't go wrong with this duet by Gary Allan and Willie Nelson, [A Showman's Life](https://open.spotify.com/track/14RNopAR7l4t5QfetVAxNM).

The first time Jaime had officially gone on tour, he’d been young and treated like a prince by his label, at the orders of his father. The hotels had been good, the food healthy. Even the venues had been decent and never filled with smoke. Though he’d had a band, he’d never traveled with them. Instead, it had been him and his father in their private bus or their private jet, flitting from city to city, dropping in and then being yanked back out again. As a boy, it had seemed like a starry-eyed dream to tour that way, to be greeted by cheering fans and protected from everything else. Once he'd gotten older, he'd been better able to see it for the heavily edited version of touring that it was. He'd been bitter about that, too, the ways it had made him doubt himself as a performer, feel like another reason he hadn't earned his fame.

Now that he's out on the road once more, in a van driven by his steel guitarist, staying in hotels selected by a tour manager who cares more about breakfasts than beds, playing to crowds that seem to only be half-listening, Jaime's regretting he didn't enjoy his youthful experience a little more. 

“That audience sucked,” Sandor says as they load their instruments back into the van after a show three weeks in. 

“You sucked,” Margaery says and Sandor snarls at her. 

“We all sucked,” Jaime says, slamming the van door closed. “I skipped an entire lyric in the bridge on our first song, and you,” he points at Sandor, “played that last song way too fast.” 

“Everyone wanted the concert to be over,” he grumbles.

“I don't care if the building's on fire – we play the music the way it's meant to be played,” Jaime insists. “Hurrying through it isn't gonna make anyone like us better.” 

Sandor grunts and climbs into the back of the van. It's Margaery's turn at shotgun, so Jaime joins Sandor in the back, though he claims the middle bench for his own. Ilyn gets in and silently starts the engine, and Jaime leans his head against the cold glass of the window. They finished early, but at least it's a Monday, so Brienne will be home. One of the unexpected benefits of her working at a bar means her hours closely match his, so he doesn't have to worry about waking her up at night, or bothering her at work in the morning. 

It's been three weeks since Jaime had woken up wrapped in Brienne's arms and had considered for a too-long moment whether he really wanted to leave. But he'd slipped out of her grasp, gotten ready, and then stared down at her long limbs and freckled body spread out in his bed, and knew the goodbye they'd said all the night before would have to be enough. If he'd woken her up, he's not sure he'd ever have gone. Definitely not on time. 

So he'd left the warm embrace of the woman he loved – who loved him back, and hadn't _that_ been a welcome punch to the heart – and gotten into a van with three people he realized he knew very little about. For all Jaime knew, Sandor could have been a very talented serial killer, or a vegan. 

He's neither, so far, but he is a great roadie with a natural instinct for knowing when they need a drug store at one in the morning – and where to find one. There's been more than one night where Jaime's wandered the store only to find Sandor in some quiet aisle, grabbing ibuprofen or trail mix or tampons. Margaery is the one who instituted band meetings to work out problems, and who's always the first to suggest a drink to smooth out whatever sharp edges remain afterward. Ilyn is relentless behind the wheel, only stopping when someone makes him, and he strong-arms the rest of them into eating some sort of fruit or vegetable at least once a day. 

Jaime's not sure what he brings to their group besides his name and the songs and their paychecks, but he tries to at least not fuck up everything else. It's hard, sometimes, because he's never spent this much concentrated time with anyone not his family, and though they've worked out the worst of the kinks, they're still all learning how to be around each other. He's not even sure who he is sometimes; he still feels like Colt onstage, no matter how often he introduces himself as Jaime Lannister. But Jaime Lannister is the boy he was; the businessman his father wanted him to become. Jaime feels like he's wearing different coats all the time, and the moment when he shuts the door behind him and has only his own thoughts for company is when he feels like he can finally drop them all to the floor. There's only one person he trusts enough to see him entirely unguarded, and she's not on the tour. 

And Jaime _likes_ these people. He can't imagine how much more difficult it is when bands hate each other. 

Ilyn parks at their discount motel – _Complimentary Breakfast Buffet!_ the lit sign optimistically promises – and they pile out, dragging their instruments back into their rooms. They mutter quiet good nights to each other and retire, blessedly, alone. 

Jaime tucks his guitar case in the corner and sits down at the rickety desk to make note of the money division in his notebook – eighty dollars for each of them tonight, which feels somehow even more damning than the audience's lack of applause. The motel room alone costs sixty-five. 

Jaime takes a quick shower and then checks the time and settles on the bed for his favorite part of the day. He dials Brienne, and she answers on the second ring. 

“Hey,” she says, and Jaime relaxes back against the wall as soon as he hears her voice. “You're early. How was the show?”

“Bad,” he tells her, but he's not annoyed about it any longer. “We were off and couldn't get rolling.”

“It's your fifth show in a row, you're probably just tired.” 

“Yeah.” It's the most performances they've done without a break; they've got tomorrow night as a rest night, thankfully, but she knows that. He'd given her a carefully laid-out tour plan with all of their hotel information and venue names. She'd affixed it to her refrigerator with a Dollywood magnet. 

“How was the audience?” 

Jaime shrugs, though she can't see it. “Not very big or very interested,” he admits. “In either my old music or my new. But at least I didn't have to sign any embarrassing promo shots or CD covers, so that's a win.” Brienne laughs softly over the line. “How was your day?” he asks, missing her as much as he ever does. He imagines sometimes she's here, him resting his head in her lap, or her ensconced safely in his arms. They've had phone sex several times since he left – and one memorable night of unsuccessful video call sex where both of their connections kept hanging – but when he dreams, it's of simple domesticity. 

“Busy,” she sighs. “I met with two different bar owners downtown to talk about drink prices and attracting acts, although--” She laughs again. “One of them was the one with that mechanical bull. You remember that place?”

“I'll never forget it,” he says truthfully. “Are you thinking of getting a bull?”

“God, no. It takes up far too much space, and the liability insurance is ridiculous. It made me miss you, though.” Her voice softens, and his heart does, too, just like every time. 

“I miss you, too,” he sighs. “What are you wearing?”

She snorts, loud and brash, and he loves her for it. “Already? Aren't you gonna at least ask about Belle first?” It thrills him when she teases, when she feels comfortable enough to poke back. 

“How's Belle?” he asks politely. 

“I got her a thing, actually.” She sounds embarrassed and Jaime's intrigued now. “It's ridiculous.” 

“I want to see it,” he insists. “And you. My two girls.” 

He can almost hear Brienne's eyeroll, but she doesn't protest, the best sign that she's quietly pleased. 

“I took a picture earlier, give me a minute.”

“You can take a new one while shirtless,” he adds lightly, and her laugh comes from further away. He feels himself stretching towards it over the line. 

After a minute she says, “Ok, I texted it to you, check it out.” 

Jaime puts her on speaker and looks at the photo, bursting immediately into delighted laughter. It's a selfie of Brienne and Belle, outside in the sun, the golden, late fall light gentle on them both. Brienne's in a cozy-looking sweater he wishes he could embrace her in, and she's smiling self-consciously up at him. Belle is dressed like a cowboy – cowdog, he supposes. Hat, bandana, white shirt and jeans down her chest and front legs. She looks absurd and adorable, and happy, astonishingly. Her tongue is lolling, her eyes are sparkling from beneath the hat. 

“What did you do to my dog?” he asks, still laughing. 

“We get a lot of kids at my house for Halloween, so I figured she could dress up to greet them.” 

“She doesn't hate it?”

“She doesn't seem to. You know I wouldn't force her, and she wouldn't even let me take the hat off right away when we were done.” 

It's the moments like this where Jaime feels the distance most acutely, when all he wants is to drag her into his arms and kiss her, just to taste her happiness on his tongue. “What about you, are you dressing up?” he asks. 

“I also have a cowgirl outfit.” 

“Are you wearing those short-shorts from the Fourth of July?” 

“They weren't that short,” Brienne mutters, and he grins at the phone. “And no, it's too cold for that.”

“Will you dress up like Daisy Duke for me, at least?” he entices her. 

He pictures her, the way she's likely going red in the face, and perhaps elsewhere. “Fine, yes, when you get back,” she says, though she doesn't sound as dismissive of it as she's putting on. He feels a surge of interested heat. 

“Any other surprises to lay on me tonight, Barkeep?” 

“Not tonight,” she says archly. 

“Mm. Will you tell me what you're wearing _now_ , then?” 

Brienne laughs again – but she does.

* * *

Margaery forces them all to dress up for their Halloween show – “I can go as a singing cowboy,” Jaime tries to convince her, but she turns him down flat – and with her careful makeup application they perform as members of KISS. 

The crowd – a group comprised mostly of drunk twenty-somethings as far as Jaime can tell from the stage – loves their costumes, and Jaime has to admit he has more fun than usual that evening. For the encore, they play “Rock and Roll All Nite,” and the crowd goes wild even though Jaime's fairly sure he screws up half the lyrics and definitely the guitar solo. But no one cares as they shout the chorus back at him, and it's easily the best show they've had on the tour so far. 

After the concert, he gets Margaery to take multiple photos, and once he's back at the hotel and cleaned off, the black makeup safely swirled down the shower drain, he calls Brienne. 

She greets him with, “Happy Halloween!” 

“Happy Halloween to you, too, Barkeep. Did you get a good haul?” 

Brienne snorts. “I gave out a good haul. Belle was a huge hit and is currently sprawled out on the bed in exhaustion. She loved meeting all the kids, but I think she's grateful for the quiet now. How about you? Did you get any candy?”

“Sadly, no,” Jaime says. “And I even dressed up.” 

“You're kidding,” Brienne says. “Should I go look for concert videos?”

“I'll do you one better, hold on.” He puts her on speaker and sends her a photo of himself doing his best Gene Simmons tongue move, and another one of the whole band. That one Jaime especially loves, because Sandor looks so pissed off at the entire state of affairs, but with the rock makeup it looks like he's just in character. 

Jaime can tell the second Brienne sees the photos because she starts laughing so loudly and so hard that he's worried for a second she's going to choke. 

“I didn't think we looked that ridiculous,” he says a little defensively. 

Brienne's laughter dies out eventually and as she's still hiccuping she says, “You played country songs looking like that?”

“We also played a KISS classic.” 

“I can't wait to see the videos. People took videos, right?”

“I saw phones up, so I assume. You can mock me more about it tomorrow.” 

“Your ego can take it,” she says dryly and he chuckles. 

“Fair enough. Do I get a picture of you in return?” 

“I suppose you've earned it. Please don't... you won't laugh at me, will you?” 

“Not unless you're dressed like a rodeo clown,” he assures her. 

“I'm holding you to that,” she warns him and then his phone dings with a message. 

It's a picture of Brienne and Belle in their cowgirl costumes, and Jaime's heart clenches with a bittersweet ache to see their faces pressed together, hats askew, and not be there, too. He imagines having spent the night at Brienne's instead of onstage, handing out candy to all the cute kids, and then stripping her down to just her vest afterward. 

“You look great,” Jaime tells her. “Happy.”

“We had fun. You look like you did, too.” 

“We did,” he admits. “It was a good show. I just wish you could have been there.” 

“Jaime,” she sighs. 

“I'm not pressing,” he says. “I'm just telling you. I still look for you at the bar every night, even though I know you're not there.” 

“A little over a month, and you'll be back. You're welcome to play at Selwyn's while you're here.” 

“It's not the bar that I miss, Brienne.” 

“I know,” she says softly. “Some Fridays I still half-expect you to walk through the door.” 

Jaime leans his head back against the wall and exhales slowly. It's the complicated tangle at the center of their relationship. He doesn't wish he was home, he just wishes Brienne were here, too. But she'll never leave Selwyn's, and he'd never make her. All they can do about it now is what's possible with distance – photos and phone calls, text messages and the little knick-knacks he buys to give her when he returns. 

“I love you,” he tells her, because that's always true, no matter what town he's in. 

“I love you, too,” she says with a smile in her voice that soaks into his skin. 

It's late, but dawn still feels far away, so he asks her about the bar and her day and eventually falls asleep alone in his bed.

* * *

There's coffee and fresh muffins the next morning that aren't as bad as Jaime feared – he has to hand it to Illyrio, their tour manager: decent breakfasts have made the whole trip more bearable. After they're on the road, Brienne sends Jaime a text with a link to a shaky video of their KISS song, which already has accumulated over a thousand hits. 

_Guess you're a rock band now_ she sends with it. 

_Rockabilly maybe_. On a whim, Jaime adds, _Have any requests?_

 _Slow Hand by Twitty_ she responds with unexpected speed. 

Jaime lifts an eyebrow. _Have you been thinking about this?_

_Maybe_

_If I'd known, I would have given you a private performance._

_I'm sure that can still be arranged for later._

Jaime grins down at his phone. 

“Stop sexting with your girlfriend,” Sandor grouches from the back bench seat of the van. 

_Give me a few days to work it out_ he sends to Brienne, before flipping Sandor off. 

At the concert that night, the audience seems more excited to see them, and it feels a little more crowded than their recent shows. They ask for the KISS song again, and Jaime tells the band in-between songs that he's going to try something different and they can just sit back while he does. He accompanies himself on “Blackbird,” a song he's long loved, and he can see phones being held up to capture it as he performs. He looks directly at one of them and smiles. 

That video gets posted, too, along with one of his original songs, and Brienne sends him the links the next morning. 

_You're going viral_ , she texts and Jaime snorts from his spot at the back of the van. Sandor has shotgun today, and Margaery took the middle bench. He'd rather go viral with his own music, but he supposes it's something, at least. 

_Whatever works_ he sends back. 

He means it jokingly, but as the tour continues, the videos seem to be arriving ahead of them and the crowds start to have the same feeling they did at Selwyn's: that they're here to see him on purpose, and with excitement, not as though he's some strange science experiment they don't care whether succeeds or fails.

Jaime works with the band to add a few more covers to their rotation – “Folsom Prison Blues” is especially popular – and the night they finally play “Slow Hand,” he asks the audience to record it and post it online. They do, a dozen different versions, and this time Jaime gathers the links to send to Brienne first. 

He's a little late calling her that night due to his internet searching, and when she answers, her voice is thick with sleep. 

“Hi,” she murmurs. Jaime inhales deeply, his entire body aching with the desire to be curled up next to hers. 

“Sounds like I woke you,” he says. “Do you want to go back to sleep?” 

“No, no,” she yawns and he can hear muted shuffling. “I fell asleep on the couch, I don't want to stay here all night anyway. How are you? How was the show?” 

“Good. I have a video to send you.” 

“Yeah?” She sounds more awake now. “Go on, then.” 

“Hopefully you can watch it and talk to me at the same time, though I'd rather see your face.” 

“We need better internet connectivity for that,” she says, her voice slightly further away. “Okay, let me play it.” 

Jaime hears the sound of his own voice from that evening: “–record this, please?” The audience shouts assent back. “Thank you kindly,” video him says. “I have someone special I want to make sure sees this.” There's more cheering and then the song kicks in. It's odd, listening to himself singing translated through the video and then the speaker – he winces at a phrasing that he wishes now he'd done differently, but he doesn't say anything, just lets Brienne watch and listen, and when the song ends, she stops the video and the line goes abruptly quiet. 

“So what did you think?” he asks immediately, his stomach jumping nervously. Jaime's rarely anxious about performing anymore, but Brienne is his most important audience by far. 

“Better than I imagined it,” she says in a throaty voice, and it reminds Jaime of their last night at Selwyn's, the way Brienne had looked bent over in front of him, how she'd felt under the spread of his hands. “Now I really want that private performance, though.” 

Jaime's already hard thanks to his memories and it only gets worse thinking of singing to her naked in his bed. “You don't think that would just be cheesy?” he asks in a rough drawl. 

“I'd be willing to risk it,” she murmurs. 

“December,” he promises. 

“Feels awfully far away.”

“Not as far as you think. Tour's nearly halfway done already.” 

“God,” she sighs, and she sounds tired again. It's a tone he's getting far too familiar with. “Has it really been almost six weeks?”

“That's what the calendar tells me.” He shifts on the bed to get more comfortable. “How was your day? Sounds like it might have been a tough one.” 

“What makes you say that?” she asks, cautious. 

“I know you pretty well by now, darlin'. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but I want to help, even if it's just listening.” 

She's quiet as she considers it, and Jaime gives her the space to do so. He'd offered two other times to help fund the changes they're trying to make at the bar, to put her in touch with one of his contacts at the city about buying the land, but she'd firmly refused both times, and asked him not to offer again. Jaime loves Brienne's strength, but he wishes she didn't feel like she can't borrow some of his sometimes, too. At least being a safety net for her to share her worries with is one area she's more and more willing to trust him. 

“I did have kind of a bad day today,” she says haltingly. 

“Tell me about it,” he coaxes her. “I want to hear.” 

“Well... one of our suppliers got impatient and forced us to pay off early, so we've had to push back some of the changes we were going to make to the bar. My dad bought this giant inflatable turkey for the parking lot even though we're closed Thanksgiving day and it wasn't in our budget and we got in a big argument about it. And then I had to break up a fight in the bar.”

Jaime sits up straighter. “Did you get hurt? Are you okay?” 

“I'm fine,” she says. “I took an elbow to the face accidentally, but I only got a small black eye.” 

“Jesus. Is someone taking care of you?”

“Yes: me,” she says dryly. “I've had a black eye before, Jaime, and this one isn't a big deal. You don't have to pull the overprotective act.” 

“I'm sorry that I want someone to watch out for you when I can't.” He tries to tamp down the bitter hurt, but it's not entirely successful. 

Brienne grunts. “I don't need someone to watch out for me.” 

“I know you don't _need_ it, Brienne. But I want to do it anyway. Why won't you--” He bites the question off and sighs. He already knows the answer. “You're okay, then?” 

“Yes,” she says. And then, gently, “Thank you for caring. I'm not... I'm not used to it.” 

“You're welcome.” If they were together, he would kiss her now, or wrap his arms around her and hold her close, so she could feel his love and believe it. His motel room feels emptier than usual. “What was the fight about?” 

“Two drunk guys both trying to hit on the same, very unwilling woman.” He can hear her disgust. How lucky those bar patrons are to have Brienne watching out for them. “I threw both guys out and then waited outside with her until she was safely in her car to make sure neither of them followed her.” 

Jaime's overwhelmed by the idea of her standing guard, by the way she takes care of others even when she doesn't want to accept it for herself. “I love you so much,” he tells her in a rush. 

“I love you, too,” she says, sounding almost confused. 

“No, I mean--” Jaime's not even sure how to explain this pressure in his chest, the way his body is jittery with emotion. “I didn't say it to hear you say it back. I just need you to know.”

“I do know,” she says softly. “Even from here.” 

“Well, in six weeks I'll make sure you do.” 

She laughs a little. “I'm looking forward to it.” Brienne clears her throat, a small little noise that Jaime feels in his stomach. “In the meantime,” she says, hesitant. “You can keep telling me. I-- I do like hearing you say it.” 

“I love you,” he says again at once, and there's a short blast of air from her amused huff. 

“I didn't mean you had to do it right now.” 

“I wanted to. I'll keep telling you until you're sick of it.” 

Brienne hums. “I don't think I'll ever get sick of that.” 

Jaime bites his lip, feeling warm and pleased. “I'll keep that in mind.” Brienne yawns again, though he can hear her trying to stifle it. “You should get some sleep, darlin'. You've got an injury to heal from.”

“It's barely even a black eye,” she protests, and then yawns again. 

“Then a single good night's sleep will help tremendously. Off you go. Pat Belle for me.” 

“I will. Hey, Jaime?”

“Hm?”

“I love you. So much.” Her voice is husky with emotion; Jaime can feel it curling like thick smoke in his chest. 

He swallows around his heart pushed up into his throat. “You're right,” he manages after a few seconds. “I don't think I'll ever get sick of that, either.” He exhales slowly and stares around at his shabby motel room. “Good night, Brienne.”

“Good night.”

They hang up, and he brings up the photo Jon had taken of the two of them the day after they'd first slept together. Tonight had been a great performance night, and Jaime doesn't regret for a second going on this tour, is enjoying the easy bickering and growing companionship with the band, the moments of connection with the audiences. But he marvels how his body's still walking around when his heart is back south of Nashville.

* * *

By the time Jaime and the band are in eastern New York in mid-November, the crowds have started to demand specific songs during performances – not just the covers, but his redone older songs, too. He plays them willingly, but the first time someone shouts the name of one of his new tunes as a request, he gets a dopey grin on his face and plays it immediately. 

The recognition grows almost exponentially from there. Jaime meets a woman in Ohio who had a friend send her his demo album and that was why she bought a concert ticket. A man in Pennsylvania admits his girlfriend dragged him out based on one of their cover videos, but he had even more fun than she did with the revamped older tunes. Jaime and the band still have the occasional bad show, but they're far outnumbered by the good ones. He wishes his new music was gaining popularity at the same rate as the rest, but Jaime's having fun – they all are. Though his favorite part of the day is still when he talks to Brienne.

The least favorite parts of his day usually involve the publicity bits that Varys keeps arranging. 

It had started small – in one or two cities they'd show up early enough that Jaime could do an afternoon radio interview to plug the show that night, or sit down with the local morning crew and put up with question after question about his past. 

But as his popularity grows, sold-out concerts aren't the only result. Varys starts texting him nearly every day with people to talk to. Not just local interviews, but ones in some of the nearby big cities, and even a national piece that goes badly when Jaime refuses to answer yet another question about why he'd stopped playing as a kid. 

Varys had sat in on that interview, and given him a thorough talking-to afterward about Jaime's responsibilities as an artist trying to get signed. 

“It's not anything he couldn't have found out in any other interview,” Jaime had grumbled. 

“You know that's not how it works,” Varys had sighed. “I've got another interview set for you with someone from CMT next week. This one is important, Jaime. You need to be on your best behavior.” 

Jaime had, reluctantly, agreed. 

The week before Thanksgiving, they arrive in Ithaca, New York for a Wednesday night show. 

“I need something warm to drink,” Margaery announces when they get to the hotel, staring out at the heavy rain.

“I've got to get to my room,” Jaime says. “I have that CMT thing in a bit.”

Sandor grunts, his primary mode of communication by the end of a long driving day. “Get out, then. The rest of us are getting coffee.” 

Jaime smirks but climbs out, waves to the band as they drive off, rain dripping off the edge of his hat already. He checks in and then hurries for his room, shivering once he's safely inside. As he dries off and prepares for the interview, he finds himself wishing he could have gone with the others. Sandor is like a wet dog in the rain, and Jaime and Margaery always have a good time poking fun at him while Ilyn watches with a small smile. They've formed into a small family after the weeks together; it's like traveling with a sister and brother and that one cool, weird uncle. 

Of course, if this had been a trip with Cersei, Tyrion, and Uncle Gerion, it would have been _very_ different. Jaime grins trying to picture Cersei staying in these third-rate hotels, or Tyrion eating the rubbery scrambled egg buffets that have become a staple of their touring diet. Gerion would have enjoyed the adventure of it, at least. 

Jaime hasn't talked to Tyrion much since the night he'd failed to show for Jaime's last performance at Selwyn's. Part of it had been wanting to spend his limited free time with Brienne, instead, but there's a not-small part of it that had stemmed from Jaime's annoyance and hurt that Tyrion couldn't do even that one thing for him. They'd had lunch once before Jaime left, a hurried, uncomfortable affair that both of them had been glad to be done with, where they hadn't even talked about Jaime's music career at all except for Tyrion's mostly sincere apology. Tyrion has texted him a couple of times since, usually to poke fun at some video he's seen of Jaime, once to ask after Brienne and if she was lonely enough for a fill-in brother yet. Jaime hadn't responded to that one. 

Tyrion might be a full-sized pain in the ass, but he's still Jaime's brother and the only family who even pretends to care, and Jaime misses him. Their father refuses to acknowledge any messages; Cersei hadn't bothered to visit from DC before Jaime left, and only responded to Jaime's email about his tour with a brief _Good for you!_ that felt patronizing and dismissive all at once. 

Jaime has a few minutes, so he texts his brother to check in. 

_Guess who's got an interview with CMT in a bit?_ he sends, not expecting a reply. 

A few seconds later, Tyrion responds. It's a pleasant shock. _Elvis?_

_Yes – they've exhumed him from Graceland._

_Sounds delightfully messy. Where can I see it?_

In spite of himself, Jaime grins a little. Even with their differences and difficulties, they always come back to this comfortable, snarky center. They have so little in common besides their name, but they still love each other. Jaime doesn't have enough family left that he likes that he can afford to be picky. _I don't know; I'll find out after it's done and let you know._

He sets his phone down and it buzzes again, this time with an unexpected follow-up message from Tyrion. _How's the tour?_

 _Good. Busy_ Jaime types, and then adds, _How's the office?_

 _Father said your name the other day and wasn't struck dead by lightning – of course, he was taking it in vain_.

Jaime snorts. _Did he spin three times and spit?_

_Seven times._

Jaime sighs, rubbing his thumb along the side of the phone. He'd known from the moment he made this decision that his father would hate it, but it hurts nonetheless, knowing how much further he's fallen in his father's estimation. Their conversation had veered from 'don't come back' to 'you'll be back' faster than Jaime had anticipated, and the speed with which his father had judged him and found him wanting had left Jaime momentarily breathless with pain and fury. For all Jaime's certainty about his family, he still expects more from them than they're ever willing to give. He hopes that someday they'll realize how much more there is to him than just being Tywin Lannister's golden failure. 

_How's Brienne's bar doing?_ Tyrion sends, surprising Jaime again.

 _Chatty tonight_ he texts back. 

_I can't talk to my big brother?_

“No,” Jaime says out loud, though he doesn't reply with that. 

_Growth is slow_ , Jaime finally sends. He'd told Tyrion only that Brienne was working on some new marketing plans for the bar, that they were trying to expand their base. _You have advice?_

 _Sell it and get a better job_. 

It is a very Tyrion response – a very _Lannister_ response. Why waste time and money on something with a minimal profit margin when much bigger financial opportunities await? It's been Tywin's guiding principle for as long as Jaime can remember: work hard, but only in the service of making lots more money. The fact that Selwyn's has history wouldn't mean shit to him. 

It's a relief when Jaime's interview reminder alarm goes off. _Need to get going; talk later._ The last is most likely untrue, but their relationship is paved with these small lies and Tyrion doesn't respond anyway. 

Varys is alone on the call when Jaime dials in; they seem to have beat the reporter online. 

“You'll answer the questions she puts to you?” Varys says. 

“As long as they're not dumb.” 

“You signed a contract, Jaime,” Varys reminds him tersely. “And this is CMT. The exposure is critical. I didn't want to tell you this yet, but there's a very interested label I've been in contact with.”

Jaime's heart leaps. “Who?”

“I don't want to say here. But I need you to be on your game. The label will see this.” 

A label means a record deal, a better-supported tour, an institution behind him that would get his music out there. It also means a contract, and a commitment, and the beginning of negotiations that would require Jaime to fight for every shred of himself and his music that he can. An exhausting battle, but one he's been preparing for. 

There's a chime on the line, announcing the reporter's arrival, and she introduces herself as Beth Cassel, explains that she oversees a series on new talent and how Jaime's videos and history are attracting attention. They start with the standard bevy of questions about Jaime's past, and this time he's polite, if terse, when answering. He can feel Varys biting his tongue at some of the answers – “Would you like to talk about how it felt the day your contract was broken?” she asks at one point. “No,” Jaime responds and then says not another word more until Beth moves the conversation on. 

She takes it into brand new territory, though, when she says, “You must have women throwing themselves at you all the time.” Beth doesn't say more, and Jaime suspects she wants some sort of assent from him, but he stays quiet. He's had more than one telephone number left on the merch table or slipped into his hand, has had more than one upfront offer from pretty women who seem to expect his agreement. Jaime throws away the slips of paper; politely turns down all the women. There's no temptation there for him. 

Beth clears her throat a little. “You mention in one of your videos that you want a 'special someone' to hear the song you're playing. How does she feel about you getting propositioned?”

“I never said I get propositioned,” he says. 

“Don't you, though?”

“It doesn't matter if I do or not, I'm not gonna say yes.” 

“Mm-hm. Because of your special someone. Who is she, Jaime?” 

He hesitates a long time in answering. Brienne wants publicity for Selwyn's, but they haven't talked about their relationship being part of that. She won't even take his money, he can't imagine she'd want him to tie what's between them to the bar, too. But he doesn't want her to think he's embarrassed by her, either. Nothing could be less true. 

“Jaime?” Beth asks again. “Are you still there?”

“Yeah, I'm here,” he says. “I'm not interested in making my personal life public, and neither is she.” 

“Trying to keep it a secret?”

“No, just don't see how it matters to my music career.” 

“How does she feel about you being on the road?” 

He sighs, annoyed. “You'd have to ask her, and I'm not giving you her name.” 

“Then how you do you feel?” 

Jaime digs his toe into the old carpet. “I like touring, but I miss her. And that's all I'm gonna say about it.” 

“Fair enough. Let's talk about your future plans.” 

“Finally,” he grumbles. Varys grunts unhappily. 

“You've obviously been in the industry before – been very successful before, as we talked about. Now you're doing it all again. What do you hope is different this time?”

“Not the success,” Jaime says dryly, and Beth laughs a little at that. “Mostly I hope people see me as who I am, not who I was, and that they like the music I'm making now.”

“But you are playing songs from your original album.” 

“I'm not an idiot.” Varys sighs on the line. “And even those I've updated some. What I most hope is that people don't come out expecting just to see a bigger version of that boy. Audiences have been pretty welcoming so far. At least, no one's told me to my face they hate my sound. Leaving aside the fact I can't quite hit the same high notes anymore, I've lived a lot of life since I was twelve. I want that to inform my music, not get stuck in the past.”

“You don't think people are more willing to give you a chance because of your past? Seems like it would give you a leg up.” 

“I think it could seem that way on the surface,” Jaime says slowly, carefully choosing his words. “And it might bring them in the door in a way it wouldn't if I had no name recognition at all. But once they're there, it can be harder to get them to see who's actually in front of them, and not who they have in their minds. If people are spending all their time comparing me to who I was, if they're thinking about what they've read about me, if they're feeling uncomfortable because my songs talk about sex and love and growing older, then my past isn't really any help at all.” 

Beth makes a small hum of agreement, and Jaime can hear her typing in the background as she takes notes. “If you got signed again, would you re-release any of your old songs?”

“I hope not. If I get signed again, I want it to be for the songs I haven't released yet.”

“Have anything new you can share with us today?”

Jaime thinks immediately about the song he's been cautiously and endlessly tinkering with since he met Brienne. It's nearly complete, and he knows with a deep certainty that goes beyond ego or ignorance that it's the best song he's ever written. He's far too protective of it to offer it up in a random interview. When he does eventually release this song, he wants it to be exactly as he wants it. 

“Not today,” Jaime says. “Though I've got a few I've been working on during down time on the road. Hopefully we'll be able to live-test some as the tour goes on. I can play you one from my demo album.” 

She agrees, and he picks one of the quieter ones that sounds better acoustic. Beth wraps up the interview shortly after that, thanking him for his time and wishing him well before disconnecting. 

“Better?” Jaime asks Varys as soon as she's gone. 

“Mostly,” Varys allows. “Good enough to give the read-ahead to the label.” 

“You can do that?” 

“This is why you hire a manager, Jaime,” Varys says archly. “I'll be in touch in a few days.”

* * *

The following Monday, Jaime calls Brienne from a deserted rest stop late in the morning. It's pouring rain, again, and the band is giving him annoyed glares from inside the van at the delay, but it can't wait. He's hovering under an archway, listening to the ringing phone and the rain spattering on concrete. His free hand taps against his leg with building energy. 

“Jaime?” Brienne says when she picks up. “Is everything all right?” 

“They want to sign me,” he tells her. A high laugh escapes with the words. 

“Who does? Sign what?”

“A label – Littlefinger Records. Varys just called to tell me. I'm meeting them in New York on Wednesday to negotiate.”

Brienne lets out a brief, joyful holler on the other end of the line. “Jaime, that's amazing! Congratulations!” 

He bounces on his toes, wishing he had her there to hug. “I can't quite believe it. And nothing's signed yet.” He exhales, trying not to get ahead of himself. “They have a satellite office there, so I'll go in and look at the contract and decide then.” 

“Do you have someone to go with you?”

“Varys is coming up. He's getting us rooms at some fancy hotel. My father would be thrilled,” Jaime says with a dry laugh. 

“ _You_ should be thrilled. _I'm_ thrilled! I wish I could be there.” 

He holds his hand out from under the overhang and lets rain collect in his palm. “I wish you could, too.”

“Will the others be going with you? I hate to think of you spending Thanksgiving alone.” 

“I haven't even told them yet,” he admits. “Varys called while we were driving and then I asked Ilyn to pull over so I could tell you first.” It hadn't even occurred to Jaime to do otherwise. 

“Go tell them! And ask Margaery to give you an extra hug from me.” 

“It won't be the same,” he says. 

“I should hope not.” Jaime smiles at her teasing tone. “I'm so happy for you, Jaime,” Brienne adds, soft and sincere. “I wish I was there with you to celebrate.” 

“A few more weeks and I'll be home. There'll be plenty of time to celebrate then.” 

“Yeah.” He pictures her chewing thoughtfully on her lip. “A few more weeks.”

Saying goodbye feels more difficult than usual. He wants to hold on, talk to her more, let the pride in her voice wash through him. But the band looks like they might leave without him in a minute, and he knows Brienne has places to be today, too. She'd told him all about it when they talked last night. They say goodbye – a few times – until Ilyn starts the van and Margaery waves threateningly and he has to hurriedly hang up to leap back inside. 

“What was that all about?” Margaery asks as Ilyn gets them back on the road, the wipers going at top speed. 

Jaime rubs his hands over his wet hair and grins at the three of them. “What are your feelings about spending Thanksgiving in New York?”


	22. Just an hour or two is better than none of you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr Baelish is a snake. It's the first and most overwhelming opinion Jaime forms of the man from the second that he slithers into the lobby and shakes Jaime's hand. Jaime's not sure he's ever met an industry executive who's _not_ , though, and Petyr's so upfront about it, it's oddly refreshing. Jaime much prefers knowing who he's dealing with from the get-go.

Petyr Baelish is a snake. It's the first and most overwhelming opinion Jaime forms of the man from the second that he slithers into the lobby and shakes Jaime's hand. Jaime's not sure he's ever met an industry executive who's _not_ , though, and Petyr's so upfront about it, it's oddly refreshing. Jaime much prefers knowing who he's dealing with from the get-go. 

“Mr. Lannister,” Petyr says, shaking his hand with an overly-dry palm. 

“Mr. Baelish. Thank you for flying up here for this.” 

“I was in the city already,” Petyr says, waving it off. “Varys, good to see you.” 

“Indeed.” Varys gives Petyr one of his enigmatic smiles. Based on the odd energy vibrating between them, Jaime honestly can't tell whether these two men like or hate each other. 

“This way, please,” Petyr says, leading Jaime and Varys to the lobby elevator, and then using a key card to get them to the twentieth floor. He engages them in small talk – asking after Jaime's tour so far, after Varys' business. Nothing too deep, and he has a small, uninterested smile for most of it, though he watches both of them carefully. 

By the time Petyr leads them to a corner conference room, Jaime's wondering why he'd even bothered to ask them to come to the office that day, he seems so unimpressed by everything. 

The conference room has full glass walls on two sides, and Jaime edges near one, feeling a wash of vertigo as he looks down at the street below. Petyr comes to stand next to him, while Varys takes a seat with his back to the glass. 

“A bit higher than our building in Nashville,” Petyr says with a wry smile. “But then everything seems much bigger here in New York.”

“Why have New York offices?” Jaime asks. “Your focus is mostly on country music.” 

“It is. But we're branching out into the R&B and rock markets, and both of those are plentiful here.” He gestures at the table and Jaime takes a seat, pours himself water from the pitcher sweating in the middle of the table. 

“You're trying to expand, but you're coming to a country singer?” Jaime asks. 

“Rock, R&B, and country have similar roots, Mr. Lannister, as surely you know. We're poised to embrace all three. Just as you have.” Petyr sits down, too, but he doesn't take any water for himself. “I've seen the videos of your covers and your modernized early songs. You have an interesting range. One that matches what we're trying to do.” 

“I want to play country music. _My_ music.” Jaime wants that clear up front, more than anything else. His music is the one thing that feels true in his life. His music, and his love for Brienne. 

“No one has suggested otherwise. Varys sent us your demo, as well.” Petyr smiles, thin and ingratiating. “Jaime – may I call you Jaime?” 

“I suppose.”

“Jaime, you are exactly the type of artist that we want to put at the forefront of our expansion. Someone who has strong country roots, but who can do even more. Frankly, it would be a win for us to have you sign. The once-famous young star, returning to the label he turned down the first time.” 

Jaime frowns. “You weren't my first label.” 

“We weren't, but we tried to be. You were too young to participate in discussions back in those days, but my mentor was the previous executive here and he showed me his notes from his initial meetings with your mother. She was a formidable woman, and uninterested in our limited size at the time.” 

It's strange to have the ghost of his mother appear here, in this space she'd never been. “She wanted what was best for me,” Jaime says. 

“I think if she were with you today, she'd be impressed by how much we've grown.” 

“My mother isn't a selling point,” Jaime says tightly. 

Petyr smooths his hand across the table. “Of course not. I only meant to show you how excited we are to have a second chance.” 

Jaime glances at Varys, who has the same unperturbed look as always. “What do you think?” he asks his manager and Varys shrugs elegantly. 

“I wouldn't have brought you here if I didn't think it was a good opportunity. Littlefinger Records has been aggressively searching out new talent. The big four, of course, have the majority of the market in country, as they do in every genre, but even the second- and third-tier label market is crowded. To take the next leap up, Littlefinger needs to sign someone with the ability to truly be a star. Someone they can hang their proverbial hat on. You are that artist, Jaime.” 

Jaime taps his finger on the tabletop, takes another drink of water. “If that's true, shouldn't I see what the other labels want first?”

Varys and Petyr exchange a long look, and though Jaime directed the question to his manager, it's Petyr who leans forward to answer. “That's a fair question. The chances of getting picked up by one of the big four is nearly impossible with no smaller label to get you started. Even with your history. Maybe even _especially_ with your history.” 

The contract his father had broken before. The power of Tywin Lannister's reach, spanning across the decades to hurt Jaime even here. 

“That same history will make the smaller companies wary of you as well, until you prove yourself. You could do that. Putting in the potentially years of time touring and rebuilding your reputation. Prove to them that you're serious, that you can put out new material that attracts an audience, not just remaking old songs. Then, maybe, one of them will grab you. Or you could sign with us, today, and jump the line.” 

“Sounds like cheating when you say it like that,” Jaime drawls, leaning back in his chair. At least his time with his father has given him comfort with negotiations. “Why are you so willing to take a chance on me when no one else will?” 

“I must confess: I'm a bit of a gambler. Varys has done well for us before, and he is very confident about you. I'm less so, as of yet, but I do love the payoff for the risk we'd be taking.” 

Jaime looks between the two men, then stares out at the New York skyline. He doesn't have to accept the first offer that crosses his path; there will be others, eventually. The question of when is an unanswered one. Better artists than him have whiled away years at bars and concert halls just to get where he is now. He could do his time, hope that people will trust that he's not going to break his contract again. But it's a lot of misplaced hope to put in the industry to look past the rumors of Jaime's past. And for all Petyr's reptilian nature, there's something truthful in what he's selling here. 

Music might be in Jaime's blood and bones, but it's money that makes the industry go, and walking the fine line of being a label's tool and never getting heard by a wider audience is the fork in the road every eager artist comes upon someday. If Jaime knows going in why Petyr has picked him, if he keeps his eyes open and his destination clear, the right path feels like it might be a little easier. It's this moment that Jaime had thought of when he'd first called Varys back and told him he agreed. It doesn't make sense to turn it down only because it's come so soon. 

Jaime finishes off his drink and then carefully sets it back down on the table. “All right, Petyr.” Petyr's smile thins a little, but Jaime knows the kind of power names can have. “Let's take a look at that contract.”

* * *

They're in the conference room for hours, going over every single paragraph of the contract. Jaime gets his contracts lawyer from Lannister Development on the line, Petyr brings in his own legal representation, and they all sit and eat excellent Indian delivery while the sun sets over New York, and Jaime signs page after page in duplicate. 

Near the end, Brienne texts him. 

_How'd the meeting go?_

_Long_ , he sends back. _Still not done. I'll text you when we are._

By the time the sun and the food have disappeared, Jaime's hand is aching and he's Littlefinger Records' newest country artist. 

“Welcome to the label,” Petyr says, shaking Jaime's sore hand. “We're thrilled to have you here.” 

Jaime's eyes and brain are tired, but he smiles and shakes Petyr's hand, and the lawyer's, and Varys', too. “What's the next step?”

“You go celebrate and we start talking internally about when to schedule you for meetings with the PR and media teams. We'll put out an official signing announcement, but not until Monday. Thanksgiving isn't a good time to drop news like this. Then we'll need to get you scheduled for interviews after that. It will give us time to get your look freshened up and some photos taken as well.”

“My look?” Jaime asks, frowning. He remembered a clause about upholding the label's image, but nothing about his own. 

“Nothing dramatic, I assure you,” Petyr says lightly. “But now you have expertise behind you to make sure you look your absolute best.” 

“I look just fine.” 

Petyr pats his arm. “Of course you do. But everyone can stand to look a little better. Don't worry about it, you'll have input into the whole process. We'll work with Varys to make sure it all gets scheduled around your current tour, though we'll want to see about using the spring dates to promote a new album with our label. Get you recording over the winter break.” 

“I'm only off for a couple of weeks,” Jaime says hesitantly. 

“Then we'll need to make sure we make the most of your time. I hope you've got some new songs ready. You've got quite a busy few months ahead of you, Jaime, and even beyond that. Summer is the time to hit the festival circuit, after all. Are you ready to change your life again?” 

For a moment, Jaime thinks of Brienne and almost says no. But he's done this before, he remembers what it entails. Surely he can balance out the label's demands with his promise to Brienne, so he nods a little and flashes a bright smile. “I look forward to it,” he says.

* * *

When he and Varys step back out into the cold November air, it's fully dark. Jaime pulls his brown suede jacket more tightly around his body, grateful for the warm lining. 

“Congratulations,” Varys says. “You've taken the next big step.” 

“Thanks for helping get me here.” People hurry by, not even glancing their way. “I'm gonna take the band out to dinner. Do you want to join us?” 

Varys gives him a small, amused smile. “I almost believe you meant that invitation. But no, thank you. I have friends I promised to see when we were done here. Enjoy your celebration, Jaime. And your days off. I'll be in touch on Saturday. You'll have much to do.” 

“Then I'll make sure to enjoy the quiet.” He tips his hat to Varys and starts the walk back to their hotel. It's only a few blocks away, and the air might be cold, but it's also crisp and refreshing. He pulls out his phone and keeps an eye on the sparsely populated sidewalks as he sends Brienne a message. She should be in the middle of the pre-show rush, but he wants to tell her before he talks to the band. 

_All done. I'm now officially a signed artist._

He's typing up the next part of his message when she responds with surprising speed. 

_CONGRATULATIONS!!!_

Jaime grins. _Didn't expect to hear from you so quick._

_It's quiet here tonight. Day before Thanksgiving and all._

_I'm on my way back to the hotel_ , he sends. _You have time for a phone call?_

_When you get in_ she sends. _I'll be waiting._

He's beaming as he walks, trying to catch people's eyes to share the excitement that's fizzing to the surface, but no one is interested in meeting his gaze, so he pulls out his phone again and texts Margaery. 

_Get the guys together. We have a celebratory dinner to eat._

It takes half a block before she responds back. _U signed???_

_Yes I did. You ready to record a real album?_

_Fuck YES!_ Then a few seconds later: _Did u tell Brienne yet?_

_Texted her first. She gets first good news rights._

_As it should be. What's ur plan for the night?_

Jaime narrowly avoids getting run over by a bicyclist and then hurries across the street on the flashing red hand. When he's safely on the other sidewalk and a short distance from the hotel he sends, _Gonna call Brienne and then I thought we could all have a fancy dinner somewhere._

_Let's plan for celebrunch tomorrow instead._

Jaime snorts. _Brienne's at work, it'll be a short conversation._

_If you say so. I think Ilyn is out tonight. Let's just do celebrunch._

He sighs and tips his hat to the doorman that's holding open the front door as Jaime walks into the warm hotel lobby. It's decorated for Christmas already, even though Thanksgiving is tomorrow, but at least they've held off on the holiday music so far. 

_Fine. Brunch. Guess I'll just sit alone in my room._

She sends him a gif of a woman rolling her eyes. _You'll be happier about it tomorrow when we're all there._

It would be strange to celebrate this without Ilyn, but Jaime's annoyed that the man couldn't schedule his plans for Thursday or Friday night instead. They're not leaving for their next concert until Saturday morning, and they all knew today might end this way. Of course, it may have ended badly, too. Maybe Ilyn had just assumed Jaime would somehow screw it up. 

Jaime's still frowning when he opens the door to his hotel room. Just inside the door, he's got one boot off and is working on the other when he hears a noise from the bathroom and freezes. He considers whether he might be in the wrong room, except his keycard had opened the door, and he can see his guitar where he'd left it this morning. 

“Hello?” He peers tentatively into the open bathroom, boot in hand. “I hope I didn't surprise you,” he says, expecting to see a very late housekeeper. “I can leave, if--” 

Jaime stops, shocked into silence. Varys had picked this hotel for its amenities – the Olympic-sized indoor pool, the fully stocked gym and bar, and the spacious suites with luxury bathtubs. The latter of which, now, is filled with bubbles, and Brienne, grinning up at him, the skin of her face and shoulders flushed pink from the heat of the water. 

“You don't have to leave,” she says, trailing her finger along the top of the bubbles. “There's plenty of room here in the tub for both of us.” 

Speechless, Jaime drops the boot and surges forward. He climbs into the tub – hat, jacket, socks and all – and Brienne screeches with laughter as water goes splashing everywhere. 

“Jaime!” she gasps when he kneels down to wrap his arms around her and pull her close. “You're gonna ruin your clothes.” 

“I don't care,” he murmurs, burrowing his face into her neck. He shuts his eyes and breathes her in, feels her skin slippery against his hands as he hugs her hard. She's real, and solid, and _here_. Brienne squeezes him with equal fierceness. “God, I missed you.” 

“I missed you, too,” she says, her lips as soft against his ear as he remembers. 

They kneel there in the tub for a long minute, holding each other, until Jaime starts nuzzling at her shoulder, kissing the bitter, soap-flavored water off of her. He'd spent so many nights imagining her in his arms again, and still she's bigger than life, hot and wet from the bath, matched so perfectly to the length of his own body it's like they were made for each other. He wants to talk to her and hold her and have sex with her all at once. 

“Jaime,” she murmurs, tugging at his jacket a little, kissing his neck and the side of his head. “Are you sure you don't want to take your clothes off?” 

His jacket and jeans are heavy and waterlogged, his socks squished between his toes. “I should,” he admits. “But I don't want to let you go.” 

Her arms tighten around him again and then she eases them apart just a little. “Let me help you.” Brienne pulls his jacket off of his shoulders and they wrangle it down his arms, dropping it onto the tile by the tub. “I really liked that jacket,” she sighs, and Jaime laughs a little, pausing to kiss her. 

Her mouth opens to him instantly and he cups his hands around her head as they kiss, slowly, both of them lingering over each other's lips, savoring the feeling. 

Jaime's jeans are getting more uncomfortable by the second and he gives Brienne another lingering kiss before pulling back, licking his lips. His gaze travels down the length of her body, dripping wet and shining, pale pink as a rosebud, and he hums appreciation deep in his chest. 

“Clothes definitely off,” he says, tugging hurriedly at his shirt, suddenly desperate to feel all of her body against his own. He squeezes a waterfall out of one sock while Brienne tackles the other with a laugh, and then it's an awkward struggle to get his jeans and underwear off. But as soon as he manages, he tugs her up against him again, his cock sliding between her legs. She's even hotter there, wetter and more slippery. 

“I hope you brought condoms, too,” he growls, his hands sliding around to her ass. 

“That's my other surprise: we don't need them any more,” she says, nipping at his jaw, his ear. 

He groans and curls his fingers into the taut flesh of her ass, pulling her down onto his lap as he sits back in the tub, sending more water spilling over the edge. Before she can do more than roll her hips once along his length, he stills her, gripped with a sudden nervousness. 

“Wait – you're not pregnant are you?”

Brienne blinks down at him, her eyes wide and startled. “What? No! I meant I'm on birth control.” 

Jaime rests his head back against the wet tile and exhales, chuckling. “Okay, good.”

She kisses him, sweetly, and then smiles against his mouth. “We're all clear.” She slides her soapy hand down his chest and wraps it around his cock, and he shudders. “Now, stop worrying about babies and start thinking about which flat surface we should use first.” 

He thrusts up into her hand. “What's wrong with here?” 

“Here,” she gasps when he rubs his thumb across one pebbled nipple, then the other, “isn't great. Baths are-- oh god, keep doing that.” He's mouthing hungrily at her neck and kneading her ass with his free hand and trying to position himself better, but her hand is stroking him in a steady, maddeningly slow rhythm that has him sinking further into the water. He might drown if he can't get traction, but it'll be the perfect way to die. 

Brienne's hand jerks unsteadily on his cock when Jaime slides his hand along the round curve of her thigh and down to her cunt. “Never mind, here's good,” she tells him in a high, needy voice as he slips one finger inside of her. It's not as easy as usual, and the tub is hard on his elbows, so he looks around and has an idea. 

“Wait, hold on,” he holds her hand still on his cock before patting the ledge of the tub. There's a towel there, wet now but still softer than the tile. “Sit up here.” She does, and he skims his hand up the water running down her legs, pressing her knees apart once she's seated. He spreads the folds of her cunt, too, exposing the pink and perfect interior, cups a handful of warm water and pours it over, washing away the last of the bubbles. Brienne shivers a little, then grabs his shoulders when he cleans the water off with his tongue. 

Her moaning fills his ears, the pleasant, faintly sour taste of her fills his tongue, and he nearly comes himself when she cries out his name, legs trembling against his arms, powerful and solidly real. “Fuck,” he groans into her cunt as he nuzzles and sucks until she gently presses her palm to his head. 

“Your turn,” she says, and Jaime looks up at those blue eyes, dark and hazy, pupils blown, and he rises up on his knees, cups the back of her head and pulls her close to kiss her wildly. Brienne scoots forward enough that he can slide inside her and he whimpers into her lips at her welcoming heat. Jaime thrusts only a few times before coming hard, his thighs smacking against the side of the tub, water splashing around them. 

They stay wrapped around each other until Brienne shivers, and he feels goosebumps on her skin. “Come back in the water,” he urges her, and she sinks into it with him, turning their bodies around so he's resting back against her chest, her legs tucked tightly outside his own. The water is lukewarm now, the bubbles mostly gone, and it's still the best bath he's had in his life when she rubs her hands over him. 

“We could add more hot water,” she says; he feels her voice through his back. It sounds so much richer in person as it echoes around the bathroom. “If you want to take a real bath.” 

“I am pretty comfortable.” Jaime leans his head back against her shoulder and she kisses his cheek. 

“One of us has to move to turn it on, then.” 

“No,” he says, earning a light pinch and a small laugh. He reaches his foot up to the tap and presses it, grateful it's one of the fancy-looking ones that don't require spinning. “Ta-dah.” They sit without talking for a bit, Jaime running his fingers along her arms where they're clasped around his waist. Even sated and enclosed in her embrace, he can't believe she's here. 

“When did you get in?” he asks over the sound of the rushing faucet. 

“A few hours ago. I wasn't sure when you'd be done and I wanted to surprise you.” 

He turns his head enough to kiss her jaw. “You surprised the hell out of me.” 

Brienne laughs again and then uses her foot to turn the tap back off. It's warmer now, though it won't last for long. “Margaery helped me get a key to your room and then I saw this bathtub and I couldn't resist. I was hoping you'd text me before you left the label. Gave me just enough time.” 

Jaime shakes his head, smiling. “That's why Margaery suggested brunch tomorrow. She knew you were here.” 

“It was an inside job,” Brienne agrees. “I couldn't have done it without her. The front desk looked skeptical enough even with her vouching for me.” 

“I didn't realize you two were talking that much.”

Brienne rubs her nose along his head and he leans into it. “We're not, really, but I talk to Ellaria a lot more than I used to.”

“A true team effort.”

“Turns out they're very invested in our love life.” 

Jaime snorts. “You'd think Ellaria would be busy enough with her own.” 

“She's a romantic. And apparently 'girlfriend surprises her boyfriend in a fancy New York hotel' was too good to resist.” 

“Well, I'm glad. We'll have to thank them both later.” Brienne's hands have drifted down, and she's idly stroking the crease where his thigh meets his pelvis, her knuckles brushing Jaime's cock. “Much later. Come on, I want to try the first flat surface.” 

He can hear the grin in Brienne's voice when she asks, “First of how many?”

“I don't rightly know, Barkeep; how long are you here?” 

“My flight leaves very early Saturday morning. Margaery said you all were back on the road then, too.” 

Jaime sighs, reaches back to cup his hand around her head and hold her close; he can already feel her absence, just talking about it. “We are. So tonight, and two full days. Let's start with the bed and then we can inventory the room.” 

He feels her smile against his cheek. “It's a big room.” 

“Then we've got no time to waste.” They're both still grinning as he tugs her up out of the tub.

* * *

A little while later, they're sitting on the bed in the hotel-provided fluffy robes and finishing off a platter of miscellaneous appetizers, quite a few of which involve cheese. 

“Is the label paying for all this?” Brienne asks, licking her fingers clean. Jaime's already volunteered to do that for her and she'd demurred, so he just watches with muted interest. He needs time to recover after that second round – he'd taken his time with her, and his jaw is a little tired.

“ _I'm_ paying for all this,” he tells her. “But it's worth it.” He trails his hand over her knee, for what must be the hundredth time. He can't stop touching her, like she'll disappear if he doesn't ground her here. 

Brienne gestures at the window, where New York is sparkling in the night. “Great view.” 

“Yeah,” Jaime says, and she sees him watching her and flushes. 

She points at his face. “You're letting your beard grow.” 

“Some.” He scratches at his jaw, the trimmed beard there. “Keeps my face warm, and easier than trying to shave every day.” 

“I like it.” 

“I may not be able to keep it. Petyr made some comment about 'updating' my look.” 

“What's wrong with your look?” she says immediately. 

“That's what I said. Don't worry, I'll break the contract if he insists on a mustache.” 

Brienne laughs and then takes his hand with her free one, squeezing it. “Tell me about the record contract. What's the agreement? Who's producing? When do you start raking in the millions?” She says the last with a sly grin and Jaime leans forward to kiss her briefly, like he's wanted to do every time she's made a joke during one of their calls over the last weeks. 

He tells her everything. It's a two record commitment, with first option to Littlefinger Records to produce a third. Money and studio time are provided upfront, with the band Jaime selects – a clause he'd fought especially hard for. Jaime's known studio musicians, and they're good, but they're not his band. The label's lawyer had fought equally hard for additional protection in case Jaime breaks his contract, which had set his teeth on edge as they'd worked it out. It's a repayment deal, a hefty one, one that would take most of his savings if he goes through with it. But he sees no reason he'll need to; Littlefinger Records has a solid stable of artists, and the music licensing agreements they'd settled on suit him well enough. The way it's written, Petyr will have influence on his first record, but his second record is mostly Jaime's, and an olive brance had to be extended somewhere. He knows enough about the industry to know that.

“When do you start recording?” Brienne asks when he's done. They've finished their food, the trays set to the side of the bed, and he's got his head in her lap, tying and untying her robe belt in intricate knots while she runs her hands through his hair. 

“Over the December break.”

Above him, she furrows her brow. “Will you be ready?”

“I've been writing songs on the tour, and I'll be able to pull some from the demo, too. Maybe one of the re-worked ones from the first album – Petyr's working that out with the old label. I should have enough, but it'll be a busy break.” 

“Oh.” She gnaws on her bottom lip and Jaime pushes up onto his elbows to meet her eyes. 

“We'll have time, too, I promise.”

“Of course,” she says hurriedly. “You have to do what you need to.” 

Jaime doesn't want to think about all the things he has to do over the next months, not when she's here, not when he can draw his finger down the V of her robe and make her pulse speed up. 

“What I really care about is what we're doing for the next two days,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.

Brienne snorts. “You promised brunch with the band, at least.”

“That was before I knew you were gonna be here, they'll understand.” 

“I was hoping we could go. It'll be nice to see everybody again.” She tugs at his own robe, leans down a little to kiss his forehead. “We have to eat, regardless, we might as well do it with them.” 

“Fine,” Jaime sighs dramatically. 

“I've also never been to New York before,” she says sort of hesitantly, and he blinks up at her. 

“Really?” 

Brienne shrugs. “We've never had money or time to travel too widely. I did some small trips in college but nothing this far.” 

Jaime sits up all the way, searching her face. She looks embarrassed, her eyes flickering away, spots of red high on her cheeks. “This is excellent news,” he says cheerfully, and Brienne frowns. “That means I get to be your first kiss on top of the Empire State Building.” 

“Is that even a thing?” 

“I'm sure it must be. If we had more time, I'd take you on the full tourist experience, but we have several weeks of not-having-sex to make up for.” 

Brienne rolls her eyes, but she's back to playing with his robe, opening the top a little, brushing her fingers along the skin there. Jaime's not as worn out as he thought. “We did have phone sex a bunch of times,” she reminds him.

“A 'bunch',” he scoffs. “Three or four, maybe.” 

“That is a lie, Colt,” she says, laughing softly. 

“Let's not quibble over numbers, Barkeep.” 

She gives him a small, fond smile. “Keeping up the word calendar, I see.” 

“A man's gotta have a hobby.” He unties the robe of her belt again, pushes the cotton aside to expose the expanse of pale skin hiding underneath, the freckles sprinkled across like cinnamon on cream. 

“My eyes are up here,” she says dryly. 

“I know.” He urges her to lie back down on the bed and then nuzzles at her chest. “You haven't told me about the bar.” 

“I'm not sure now is really the time,” she says, inhaling deeply when he starts kneading her breasts. They fit perfectly in his hands. 

“Now works for me,” he says, smirking at the way she's trying not to flutter her eyes closed. 

“I forgot how much harder it is to focus when you're in front of me.” 

He's missed her voice, the way she takes up so much space in his arms, the way she takes up all the space in his ribcage. 

Jaime pauses to press a soft kiss to her sternum, her collarbone, over her heart. “I'm really glad you're here,” he murmurs, and she tilts her head to look at him, her eyes glowing and soft. She runs her fingers tenderly over his face. 

“I am, too,” she tells him. 

“I love you, Brienne Tarth.”

Adorably, that makes her flush deeply red, and she curls her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. “I love _you_ , Jaime Lannister.” 

Even though he's signed a record deal today, this moment is the happiest he's been. He clears his throat, kisses the valley between her breasts again and rests his chin gently on her stomach to stare up at her. “Tell me everything,” he says, and she does, her voice as warm as her hands caressing his shoulders and back.

* * *

When Jaime wakes in the morning, Brienne is still there in bed next to him, still not a dream. He skims his hand over her back, and she makes a snuffling, unhappy grunt that makes him grin. They'd fallen asleep late, after Brienne had told him all about the bar, after they'd fucked slowly one more time, after they'd ordered a middle-of-the-night dessert just because Brienne had been so delighted by the idea of it. It's nearly ten now, the latest he's slept in in awhile. It's a more comfortable bed than he's been in in weeks, but _he's_ more comfortable, too. 

Jaime rolls onto his back and looks up at the ceiling. He knew he'd missed having Brienne around, but he hadn't realized how much until she was here again. Ten months ago he hadn't even known she existed. Of course, ten months ago he hadn't been performing, either – his whole life is different now. Back then, he'd been ignoring the restless itch even as it grew more insistent by the day. Back then, he'd spent most of his life ignoring things: how much he disliked his job, how lonely he was. He wishes he could remember who'd made the comment about Selwyn's at the office; Jaime would love to give them a paid vacation to anywhere in the world in thanks. 

Brienne curls up against him, one leg resting heavy between his, her arm coming around his chest, and she kisses his shoulder. 

“Good morning,” she mumbles, her voice still scratchy with sleep. Jaime sneaks his arm under her to pull her closer. 

“Morning. Sleep well?” 

“Yeah. These are nice sheets.” 

“I know how important sheets are to you,” he says solemnly. 

Brienne kisses him in a winding path along the top of his chest, and Jaime's just as ready for her again as he was last night. 

“What's the plan this morning, cowboy?” she says against his skin. 

“You signed us up for brunch with the band, remember?” Brienne had insisted he text Margaery to let her know they'd be ready for a celebratory meal at eleven today – he's pretty sure in order to prevent him from cancelling entirely. 

Brienne lays her body on top of his, pushing up on her arms and blinking innocently down at him. “You must have mistyped. I meant lunch.” 

He considers giving her shit about her suddenly flexible schedule, but she's positioned over his cock and he's not a masochist. “Lunch it is,” he agrees, grabbing her hips as he slides in deep. 

She feels incredible on top of him, her wide and strong body, her tight, intense heat. Ten months ago he'd never known what she looked like with her face pinched with need as she chases her pleasure; he'd never known she likes his hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back just a little; that he likes the way she traps his hips between her powerful thighs. Ten months ago he hadn't known what it was to want someone with every part of himself. 

“Jaime,” she says, lowering her chest down to bring her mouth near his ear. “You feel so good inside of me.” 

He gasps and blood surges down to his already-aching cock. Brienne isn't much of a talker during sex; even their phone calls Jaime still mostly drives. He's happy to do so, but her voice is its own weapon, vibrating low over his body like a bass note, and he'd be just as happy for her to wield it against him more frequently. 

“Yeah?” he breathes now. He rolls his hips up to thrust more deeply and says, his voice husky, “You could tell me more about that.” 

It must be a Thanksgiving miracle, because she does. “I think about you fucking me in the bar all the time,” she starts, and continues from there, heedless of his increasingly desperate noises. Brienne moves in time with his furious, driving motion, her ass slapping against his thighs. “Sometimes I get wet just hearing your voice,” she says, and “I masturbate thinking about going down on you in your truck,” and “I want you to think of me riding you every time you touch yourself,” her voice hitching, her words sheathed in whimpers of pleasure. Jaime doesn't want her to stop, but he's so close already and she keeps at it in a way that has him rocketing towards the edge. “When you're onstage, I think about how hard you are when we fuck. How you're mine, how-- _ahhh_ ,” she cries out when he shoves his hand between them to rub her clit. 

His senses are already filled with her and his mind is filled with her now, too, an array of images he's never going to forget. When she goes rigid, clenching around him, and chokes out in a ragged moan, “God, you're so good, Jaime,” his orgasm hits him like a blow, his hips jerking up and into her until he's spent and his throat is dry from his helpless, drawn-out groan. 

Brienne slumps into his arms and he holds her tightly, his body still moving in small, urgent thrusts as the waves recede. He's left panting, his nose buried in her hair. She's gasping, too, clinging to his shoulders. 

“You good?” he manages after a minute, and her hair tickles his chin as she nods. 

“Great,” she mumbles, her mouth mashed against his neck. Their breathing slows together, and she shifts so she's less on top of him.

Jaime rubs his hand over her back in long, swooping arcs. “You'll have to tell me what I did to encourage your talking, because I want to do it again.” 

She hides her face against the pillow. “That was okay?”

Jaime chuckles dryly. “That was a lot more than okay. You can do that any time you want, darlin'.” 

“I just thought... I like it when you do it for me on the phone, and I know you like it when I say things sometimes. It seemed like it would be easier to do it with you here.” 

He kisses her temple, the soft skin by her ear. “Was it easier?” 

“Yeah, actually, it was. Fun, too.” Brienne peeks out from under the fall of her hair, one big blue eye bright with happiness. 

“You could tell me more about this truck fantasy,” he encourages, and she sticks her tongue out at him. 

“We have to get ready for lunch.” 

“That seems like a bad idea.” 

Brienne pats his chest. “You'll be glad we did it. We need to celebrate this properly.” He starts to comment and she covers his mouth with her hand. “Properly with clothes on. Some journalist is gonna ask you what you did when you found out, and you can't just say you had sex all day.” 

“I _could_ ,” he mutters against her fingers. 

“We'll get a recommendation for a place from the front desk,” she barrels on, ignoring him, “and then we can see about--” Brienne sits up abruptly, tugging the comforter around her. “Oh, no, it's Thanksgiving, isn't it? I wonder if everything is closed.” 

“Wouldn't that be a shame.” 

Brienne gives him an unamused look and pokes him in the chest with one strong finger. “I'm holding you to one celebratory meal with your band.” 

“And my girlfriend.”

It's almost unbearably sweet to watch her melt at that, to see the shy delight come over her. “Yes, her, too.” 

“If everything's closed, can we at least come back here afterward?” He tugs at the comforter, gently, and she lets it fall. Brienne's skin is a mural, a delicate covering over the iron of her muscles, red spilling across the pale pink, freckles scattered on top. He loves every stubborn inch of her. 

“That seems like the only reasonable choice,” she says seriously. The spark in her eyes gives her away. 

“Good.” Jaime reaches towards the clock to check the time. “Now, if we take quick showers, and we don't have to meet everybody until noon, you've got plenty of time to expand on this vehicular blowjob situation.” 

Her pillow hits him directly in the face when she throws it at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gary Allan's “Fly By Night” was the soundtrack for much of this while I was writing it, if you'd like mood music.


	23. We fly by night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not that he's never been in a place like this – Jaime's been to New York for conferences and business meetings before, and companies love to entertain via fancy lunches. But he's never been here while just being himself, instead of Jaime Lannister, heir to Lannister Development. It's a strange feeling, more and less comfortable at once. It helps to have Brienne with him. It always does.

Jaime and Brienne step out of the elevator together at just past noon, and find Sandor and Ilyn waiting for them. 

“Margaery's holding down a table,” Sandor says by way of greeting, and he and Ilyn turn and start for the doors. 

“All right,” Jaime says slowly, exchanging a glance with Brienne, who shrugs. 

“If this is another surprise, I don't know anything about it,” she tells him. 

Jaime's jacket is stiff where he'd gotten it wet in the bath, but he tugs it around himself, slips his arm around Brienne's waist and lets her wrap hers around his shoulders as they follow the band. They don't walk far – a city block to a street lined with small bistros – which is good, because it's raining lightly and the wind is chilly where it creeps through his collar. 

It's a very New York street, and Brienne is soaking it in, her wool cap pulled tightly down over her head. Jaime's got his cowboy hat and boots on; with his belt buckle and faded jeans, his real leather and fake wool jacket, he feels a little out of place when he holds the door open for Brienne to the hip cafe Margaery has secured for them. 

It's not that he's never been in a place like this – Jaime's been to New York for conferences and business meetings before, and companies love to entertain via fancy lunches. But he's never been here while just being himself, instead of Jaime Lannister, heir to Lannister Development. It's a strange feeling, more and less comfortable at once. It helps to have Brienne with him. It always does. 

“What?” she asks when she catches him staring. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose are bright pink with cold, her pale lashes are glimmering from the rain. 

Jaime shakes his head a little and smiles. “You warm enough?” 

She tugs her cap off, leaving little tendrils of hair sprouting everywhere. “Yeah. Come on, Margaery's waving at us.” 

Margaery's at a table near a corner window, the biggest one in the entire place. It's round, with enough seating for eight. 

“The man of the hour!” she greets Jaime loudly and he rolls his eyes, but he's grinning as he takes a seat in-between Ilyn and Brienne. “Brienne, what a surprise!”

Jaime snorts. “She told me your role in all this, you can stop pretending.” 

“I had to be sure. Did you two have a good night? And morning?” Her smile is huge and knowing. 

Brienne's whole face is red now, and Jaime feels his own face heating, hopes his beard hides the worst of it. “We did, thank you,” he mutters. “So why'd you pick this place?”

“Front desk recommended it. Said it was the best place that was also open. The menu looks good. Pricey, though.” 

“I'll buy,” Jaime says easily, and she thwacks his menu with her own.

“No you won't. This is in your honor.” 

“He's the one who just signed the deal, let him pay,” Sandor rumbles from behind his menu. 

Margaery thwacks his menu, too, ignoring Sandor's glare. She's gotten very good at ignoring that look from Sandor over their weeks together. “ _The band_ will split the check.” 

Jaime sees her look meaningfully at Brienne sitting next to her, who bristles, but doesn't protest. It makes him wonder if Brienne could truly afford the ticket up here, given her intense budgeting with the bar. He'll have to ask her later, see if there's any way she'll let him split the cost. He knows there isn't, but he has to try. 

“No more talk about money,” Margaery declares. “It's time for celebrunch.” 

“It's lunchtime,” Jaime reminds her and she shrugs. 

“Celelunch doesn't sound as good.” 

They order, individual meals and too many appetizers, and Margaery has their waiter bring champagne, too, which they hold aloft in mason jars, the only drinking glasses the cafe has. 

“To Jaime,” Margaery says. “Congratulations on taking the next big step!”

They clink their jars and everybody takes a sip. Jaime holds his up again and clears his throat and they look at him. 

“To my excellent band, who I hope will continue to tour and record with me since I demanded it in my contract.” 

Margaery's eyes are shining and she clanks her glass into his so hard Jaime winces, anticipating a break, though none comes. “Hell yes,” she says. “See?” She turns to Ilyn and Sandor. “I told you he'd bring us along.” 

“Worried?” Jaime directs to Sandor, who grunts. 

“Been in this position before. Most solo acts are happy to accept the label's musicians. Especially those of us not so PR-friendly.”

Sandor usually hides his scarred face with the lank fall of his dark hair when they're out, though once he's safely tucked behind his drum set he forgets everything but the music. But even when they're all hanging out in the van and he's got his hair pulled back in a utilitarian ponytail, Jaime's gotten so used to seeing it that he forgets sometimes other people might care. Sandor is a big man, with a dry sense of humor and a loyal streak to equal Brienne's. He's quiet, but sharp, and committed to making good music. Jaime can't imagine the band without him – or Ilyn or Margaery – no matter what any of them look like. 

“Not a big fan of PR myself,” Jaime says.

“Besides,” Margaery interrupts, “Jaime is still the act, they'll focus on him anyway.” She nudges Brienne with her elbow. “Do you ever get sick of it?” 

Brienne furrows her brows a little. “Of what?” 

“His face.” Jaime snickers at Brienne's shocked little 'oh.' “It doesn't matter what time we wake up, he comes out of his room looking like that every morning. _So_ annoying.” 

Jaime gives her a big, toothy grin and Margaery sticks her tongue out at him. Brienne's watching the two of them uncertainly. 

“I... I never really thought about it,” she says. 

“No one would blame you if you did,” Margaery says lightly, patting Brienne's arm. 

“I like his face,” she mumbles quietly, and Jaime squeezes her knee under the table, oddly touched. 

“Jealousy isn't gonna make your morning routine any faster,” Jaime says, and Margaery flips him off. It feels like arguing with a younger sibling over the family dinner table, an experience Jaime's never really had given Tywin Lannister's adherence to the motto of 'children should be seen and not heard.' Not even at dinnertime. Or celebrunch. 

He should text his family to let them know about the signing, if only so they can prepare for any incoming media calls. Jaime sighs and tunes back in to the conversation Margaery and Brienne are having. 

“--with Belle?” Margaery's asking. 

“She's staying with Jon while I'm here. He keeps sending pictures.” She pulls out her phone and holds up one she'd shown Jaime earlier, of Belle flopped against the side of a truly enormous, white-furred dog that looks put-upon but docile. 

Margaery coos over the dogs, the two women bending their heads over Brienne's phone. 

“So what's the deal you signed?” Sandor asks. Ilyn looks interested, too, quiet as always. 

“Two albums with Littlefinger Records. Possible third if we both agree. Which reminds me: are all of you available for a week over the break? Petyr wants us to get something on tape that he can start mixing before we head back on the spring tour.” 

“Already?” Margaery says, looking up with a small frown. “Moving fast, isn't he?”

“He wants to capitalize on the videos and name recognition. And I have songs already, it's just getting it recorded and produced.”

“I was planning on staying around Nashville anyway, I guess. If it's no more than a week, I'll be available. But I need _some_ time off,” Margaery says firmly. 

“That's fair. So do I.” Jaime shoots Brienne a quick look. “Sandor? Ilyn?” Both men nod. 

“Any excuse not to have to deal with fucking family at Christmas. And Ilyn's Jewish, so he doesn't give a shit, either.” 

“Yeah?” Jaime says, looking to his slide guitarist for confirmation. 

Ilyn shrugs a little. “You never asked,” he says in his soft voice. “Non-religious, so I can make any days and times, too.”

“Well.” Jaime toasts them. “L'chaim.” 

Ilyn's mouth quirks into a smile, a rare sight on his usually staid face, and he repeats the toast and takes a drink. 

They pass the meal pleasantly, devouring the exceptionally good food, polishing off the bottle of champagne, and talking about increasingly outlandish bar experiences. 

Brienne's quiet at first, but Jaime and Margaery tag-team her on questions, bringing her into the conversation over and over until she's rattling off her own impressive stories as their waiter clears the empty plates. 

In true Brienne fashion, though, she downplays them on first telling. “He wasn't that big,” she's saying now. “Barely even Sandor's size.” 

Margaery examines Sandor, then looks at Brienne with wide eyes. “Barely Sandor's size is still bear-sized.” 

“That's exaggerating a bit.” 

The other woman waves off Brienne's humility. “You took him down, Brienne. With your bare hands.” 

“He was quite drunk.” 

“Took. Him. Down.” Margaery drives her finger into the table with each word. Jaime grins behind his jar of water. He'd had less to drink than the rest of the band, mostly because he wants to be sober for his limited time with Brienne. “That's so hot.” 

Brienne nearly chokes. “ _What?_ ” 

“If you weren't so googly-eyed over him,” she points at Jaime with an accusing glare, “I'd be hitting on you so hard right now.” 

Jaime's a little worried Brienne's going to melt into a puddle of embarrassed goo. “What about Ellaria?” he says, stepping in and dragging Margaery's attention to himself. 

“Oh she would love it. We've bemoaned Brienne's affection for you before.” 

“Thanks,” Jaime says dryly, and this time Brienne squeezes Jaime's knee. “Good to know Brienne has welcoming arms if I ever screw this up.” 

“We're waiting,” Margaery says with a too-innocent smile, and suddenly Jaime isn't finding any of this funny any longer. The idea of Brienne leaving him makes his heart pound too hard in his chest. He covers her hand, still on his leg. 

“We should get going,” he says. “We've taken up this space long enough.” 

“Don't be a party-pooper,” Margaery pouts. “I'm just kidding.” 

“I'm not,” Jaime says tightly. He forces himself to smile. “Thank you all for the meal. And for sticking with me.” 

Margaery's eyes narrow thoughtfully, but she nods, letting him and Brienne stand without comment. 

“Thank you for the food,” Brienne says. “I'll talk to you later.” That she directs to Margaery. 

“Try not to have so much sex you get sore,” Margaery says cheerfully, and Jaime leads Brienne out of there before Margaery can embarrass either of them further, Sandor's amused snort following after. 

They emerge back onto the street, and the rain has stopped but it's still cold. Brienne tugs her hat back on and grins ruefully at Jaime. 

“She didn't mean any of that,” she says. 

“Yes, she did.” He takes her hand, tucking their clasped hands into the pocket of his jacket as they walk. “But hopefully she won't get the chance to prove it to you.” 

They're quiet on the walk back to the hotel, until Jaime says, “Did you want to do tourist stuff today? I'm sure the Empire State Building is open.”

“If I'd thought about it, I would have made you go watch the Macy's parade,” she sighs wistfully. “But since that's long over, let's just go back to the room.” Her fingers tighten around his where they're curled in his pocket. “I need to call my dad before he has to resort to guilt-tripping me.” 

“My father prefers the route of directly-applied disappointment, but I should text Tyrion and Cersei, at least.” Jaime's not sure either of them would text him first, but he doesn't want to wait to find out. 

“You know, for Christmas,” Brienne says, chewing a bit on her lower lip. “You're welcome to come with me to my dad's. We close the bar for a couple days, and Galladon comes down for Christmas dinner. I'm sure they'd be happy to have you, too. I sure would be.” 

She darts him a quick, hopeful glance, and he leans over and kisses her. “That's the best Christmas offer I've had in years. My father hosts a big Lannister dinner on Christmas Eve, and then forces us all to go to Midnight Mass.”

“You're Catholic?”

“My father is,” Jaime says wryly. “I'm avoidant.” 

Brienne laughs a little. “We were never church-goers ourselves. Especially not after my mom died.” 

“That happens. That or everyone gets very religious. I think my father mostly does it to keep up appearances. We always go to this absurdly fancy church and he spends most of his time shaking hands with other big-wigs. If you'd be willing to suffer through it with me, I could make it worth your while.” 

Her cheeks, already pink with cold, redden. “I'm not going to make out with you in one of those sin boxes.” 

Jaime laughs, loud and long. “Do you mean the confessional booth?” Brienne nods, sheepish. “That hadn't been my intention, darlin', but now that you suggest it...” 

“No,” she says very seriously. “I am not going to hell just because I can't wait half an hour to kiss you.” 

“First of all, you really are not prepared for a full Catholic Mass if you think we'll be in and out of there in half an hour. Second, you never have to wait to kiss me, surely you know that by now.” 

She bumps her shoulder into his. “You're distracting me from my point. I'd love to go to your Christmas Eve dinner – and Mass – with you. You don't owe me anything for that.” 

“That's only because you haven't gone yet.” 

He can't stop trying to lighten this, but her expression is serious. “I want to know every side of you, Jaime. Your family is part of that.” 

The steady burning fire of Brienne's love flows through him, and Jaime is suddenly much warmer than even the New York climate can freeze out. “Then you're invited. No making out in the sin box required, though it's still an option.” 

Her answering laugh leads the way through the holiday crowds.

* * *

Friday morning, Jaime wakes up before Brienne again and climbs quietly out of bed. They've been pushing hard over the tour, late to bed and early to rise, and his body seems to think they're still on that schedule. If he's still doing this in ten years, he's going to have to make sure they either schedule less aggressively, or his tour bus has a nice bed for him to nap on during the drive. Even better if it's big enough for him and Brienne both. 

It's strange to imagine years into the future and still be able to picture her there, but it's stranger still to try to imagine his life without her. A world where they're still not together even twenty years from now seems so improbable it would take an infinite multiverse to find it. Maybe somewhere there's a Jaime who didn't go back to the bar that Friday, who lets himself get swept away by money and fame to leave Brienne behind, but he's one out of billions. 

Jaime quietly shuts the door to the separate bedroom and pads barefoot into the suite to grab his writing notebook and a hotel pen. It's been awhile since he worked on his special song, but he's had a few breakthroughs in his foggy, half-awake state, and he wants to write them down before they dissipate with the haze. He can work on the melody once Brienne is awake; for now the notations will be enough. 

Eventually the tinkering will hit a point of diminishing returns – he'll change one word enough, adjust one series of notes in such a way that it will make the song worse, not better. But he's not quite there yet. It doesn't escape his notice that he hasn't worked on this particular song since he'd left Nashville, that the change isn't that he's home again but that Brienne is here with him. 

It's all a little too revealing, so he shoves it aside and focuses on the work while he waits for Brienne to wake up. He glances at his phone and sees Tyrion sent another message while Jaime was asleep. 

_Can't believe you managed to avoid Tgiving dinner and still saved face. I get why you went on tour now. Playing the long game._

Jaime grins a little, scrolls back through his conversation with Tyrion from yesterday. Cersei had responded to Jaime's _Happy Thanksgiving, twin!_ with a turkey emoji and a photo of her kids holding up hand turkey drawings they'd made. The younger two were smiling, but her eldest, Joffrey, was glaring balefully at the camera. Seven years old and already a pain in the ass, that one. 

Tyrion, though, had been downright chatty, wishing Jaime a happy Thanksgiving, asking after Brienne, and then, when Jaime had told him she was here, sending a string of truly absurd emojis that involved a shocking amount of vegetables. 

_How's her bar doing?_ Tyrion had asked after that. 

_Soldiering on._

_Good. Has she considered buying the land it's on?_

Jaime had glanced at Brienne, who'd been chatting happily with her father on the phone at that moment, and then had typed in a response. _She's got a plan that she's following._

_Land is power_ , Tyrion had sent back, and Jaime had felt a chill run down his back at his father's familiar words. 

_She's got it under control._ Jaime had sent that even though he'd been unsure whether he really believed it. Not because of Brienne – he trusts her drive and determination as much as he trusts the sun rising every day. Jaime just doesn't trust everyone else in the world to bend to her will as far as they'll need to for Brienne to be successful at this. Uncomfortable, Jaime had distracted Tyrion by asking whether he'd be attending the family dinner, and that had sent them on a nearly thirty-minute reminisce of past get-togethers. By the time Brienne had finished with her father and had spent a few minutes talking to Galladon, Jaime had felt better about his relationship with Tyrion than he had in months. 

Jaime tosses his phone on the cushion next to him on the couch now, and puts thoughts of Tyrion and every other Lannister out of his head, focusing on the song in front of him, the one wrapped around his spine and winding its way through his limbs. It's nearly done, he can sense it, it's just a matter of figuring out what the coda is. 

He's tapping the pen against his chin when the bedroom door opens and Brienne emerges. Her hair is loose and sleep-mussed, and she's wearing one of his shirts, buttoned halfway and exposing a long strip of her pale skin, the fabric not long enough to hide her pink cotton underwear. He stares at her, struck wordless with sudden lust. 

“Morning.” She gestures at the clothes. “I hope you don't mind.” 

“Why the hell would I mind?” He sets his open notebook on the table. “I'll only mind if you don't take it with you when you go, and leave one of yours for me.” 

She walks over and sits next to him on the couch, folding one long leg under her body, the other pressing against his. He runs his knuckles down the exposed skin of her chest and she shivers a little. 

“Are you working on a song?” She glances curiously at his notebook and Jaime hastily closes it. He's never shown in-progress songs to anyone; Belle is the only living creature that's even heard this particular tune. As much as he loves and trusts Brienne, this part of the process is too delicate to expose to even her eyes just yet. 

“Only noodling,” he says, smiling at her. “I've got to make sure I have enough for the studio.” This song won't be one of them, he's fairly sure. Not on this first record, when he doesn't know yet how Petyr produces. 

“Do you think, maybe, I could watch you record one day?” She looks prepared for him to say no. 

Jaime runs his hand along her thigh, marveling as always at the length of it. “Of course. I'd love to have you there. I'm happy to have you with me anywhere.” 

She flushes and gives him a small, happy smile. “I've always wanted to see how it works.” 

“Did you ever think about getting into that side of the music business? Production?” 

“I don't have the right skills for it. Or the patience to fiddle with those sound boards endlessly. But one of my favorite things about the bar is discovering a new act. Like a talent scout in baseball.” 

“You did do pretty well finding me,” he says slyly, and she shakes her head with a fond look. “How are Tall and Small?” 

“Very funny and _very_ talented. It's been harder to convince people to come see a female act, which is aggravating. But once people get in the seats, they're impressed.” 

Jaime slides his fingers all the way back up her thigh to the edge of her underwear, and Brienne lets out a small, tantalizing sigh. “They're lucky to have you fighting for them. Just like I was.” 

“I mostly fought _with_ you at first.”

“That's not how I remember it.” He tugs at the elastic, slipping one finger underneath. Brienne inhales deeply. “You challenged me to be better. Because you believed I could be.” 

“You would have done it anyway,” she protests, though not with the force he imagines she intends it. 

Jaime's not convinced that's true, but he's not interested in arguing right now. “Regardless, look at me now: a manager, a tour, a record deal.”

“And I didn't even get a finder's fee,” Brienne says, but the humor in it falls away when he starts kissing her in a soft line along her jaw, down her neck to the sweep of her chest exposed by her open shirt. He tugs her underwear aside for better access. 

“We have a saying in our family,” he murmurs along the heated flush of her skin. “A Lannister always pays their debts.” 

Brienne's voice is unsteady when she says, “Seems like you owe me pretty big.” 

“Then I'll have to spend considerable time repaying you.” She's lying back against the couch now and his mouth is near her belly button. “Think we could work something out?” 

She wraps her hands in his hair. “I think we can come to an agreement.” He presses his nose into her underwear and she gasps. 

“Good. Let's start now,” he says, before getting to work.

* * *

Friday passes far too quickly. They make it out of the hotel room only because he doesn't want her to completely miss seeing New York, when she'd seemed so excited about it before. By the time they're done on the couch, Brienne seems ready to stay inside all day, but he gets them both up and showered and changed and once they're at the top of the Empire State Building, her wide, toothy smile is worth it. It's cold and windy, and they don't stay on the outside of the viewing platform long. Just long enough to take a selfie together; long enough for him to kiss her. 

They buy each other souvenirs before they go, each of them combing the gift shop separately and buying their items alone. In the cab on their way back to the hotel, they exchange their equally small paper bags and peer inside. Jaime pulls out a magnet and grins at her. 

“Your refrigerator looked so bare,” Brienne explains, a little bashful. He kisses it away. 

“It's perfect. We can start a collection,” he says, studying the artistic rendering of the building. When he looks up at Brienne again, her cheeks are pink, though he's not sure why. “Your turn.” 

She pulls a delicately painted shot glass out of her bag. “Oh, this is beautiful. I'll keep it at the bar,” she says, smiling softly. “Thank you.” 

“I expect to use it when I get back.” He tucks his magnet safely away, watches her carefully re-wrap the shot glass. 

“I'll save it just for you,” Brienne tells him, and this time she kisses him, then rests her head on his shoulder. “Three weeks. Not much at all.” 

Not much, but more than he wants, even though the reason he's away is because he's doing something he loves. It's easier when she's not here, reminding him of everything he's about to miss. They hold hands the entire drive back. 

They order room service again, and watch a random movie curled up together on the bed, and miss the end of it when Brienne's hands stray to Jaime's belt. 

The rain is pattering against the windowpane afterward, the curtains open to let the night in. They're naked, the sheets tangled around their waists. Brienne is lightly tracing the lines of Jaime's tattoo. He doesn't have to see it to remember what it looks like; he'd spent hours finalizing the details with the tattoo artist. As soon as he'd turned eighteen he'd gotten it done – a treble clef that starts at the top of his shoulder and curls down his bicep. The large circle of the treble clef is a compass, and the top of it swirls up and out, pointing north. The bottom loops down and outward, too, in the shape of an elegant _J_. The top represents how music has been his guiding light. The bottom is for his mother. 

“Did it hurt when you got it?” Brienne asks as she runs her finger along the graceful lines of the treble clef. 

“Some.” 

“Do you ever think about getting another one?” 

“Maybe. If I found something I wanted to keep with me like that. You thinking about getting one?” He pictures it, something meaningful etched on her skin, and wonders what it would be. 

“I have in the past, but I was never sure what. I never really felt anything belonged to me enough that I wouldn't be sad to see it later, knowing it was gone.” 

He pulls her closer, kisses her head. “You know the J is for my mom,” he says quietly, staring at the water-dappled window in the dim light. Brienne nods silently. “Having it there on my arm, it's like having her memory to touch. Sometimes it's sad, but mostly it's a comfort. Like she's still watching out for me.” 

“Will you tell me about her?” Brienne asks. Her voice is gentle, and sweet. Her fingers are resting lightly on his tattoo now, covering it with a warm pressure. 

“She was the opposite of my father in almost every way, except for her determination. Just as driven as him, but all bent towards her family. At least, as far as I knew her. She's the one who encouraged me in all my musical leanings. Got me guitar lessons, attended every recital, applauded every terrible song.” He smiles with a sudden memory. “She used to sing with me, sometimes. She had a terrible voice, but she meant every word and I loved it. I loved her.” Brienne squeezes his arm. “When my songs started becoming good,” he continues, “and she saw how much I loved playing, she's the one who arranged for me to perform in public, who reached out to managers and labels. She believed in me and never once doubted I could do it. My father's too wrapped up in business and legacy and money, and he's only ever seen one path forward. Never even considered being happy was more important than being successful. For him, success brings happiness. For her, happiness was success.”

“She sounds wonderful,” Brienne says softly. Her voice is an ember in the darkness. “It must have been devastating when she died.”

“It was. I can't believe I managed it, now. It hurt so much just to think of her, and then that song went platinum and my career kicked off. Nine years old and heartbroken and famous. Every time I was onstage, I wondered whether she'd be proud of me. When my dad forced me out of the contract, when I stopped playing, it was like losing her all over again. I still kept wondering, but I couldn't even play to prove anything to her.” 

“She would have been proud of you,” Brienne says with such unshakeable confidence he feels it in his chest. When she says it, it feels true. “Even when you stopped. She'd be proud of you now, too.”

Jaime tightens his arms around Brienne, pressing his face to her hair and breathing her in around the swelling pressure of his heart. He's certain his mother would have been proud of him for having found Brienne. “What am I gonna do without you here?” he murmurs once the lump in his throat has dissolved enough to allow it. 

“Sing and play guitar and have fun on your way back home.” Brienne sounds near tears herself. 

“Back to you.” 

She makes a small hum of agreement. They're both quiet, breathing in time, the rain a soothing harmony. “Jaime,” Brienne whispers after a minute. “You want this, right?” He furrows his brow but she's not looking at him. “The record deal, the fame, again. I want to be sure you're choosing this for you.” 

Jaime inhales deeply, exhales slow. It's a question he's asked himself several times on the tour, good days and bad days both. “I want to play music,” he says. “I want as many people as I can to hear it. I don't care about being famous, but I want people to know that I'm not that boy. To prove that I can do this, so that my Google searches don't all start with what a terrible brat I was.” 

“Your legacy.” Two words, but they're heavy with meaning. 

“Yes. I suppose I'm a little like my father after all,” he admits. That's something he'll have to chew over later, but it's too tough to swallow now. He doesn't want to ask this next question, but if he doesn't it will haunt him until he does, and here in this rain-soaked bubble it feels safer. “Are _you_ still okay with all this?” 

“It's hard,” Brienne says hesitantly. “But it's worth it. You're worth it.” He hears the echo of when he'd told her the same thing, that night at the bar months ago. She must, too, because she pushes up on one elbow to meet his eyes and says, “I just have to look at you to know it.” 

He pulls her down to kiss her, long and slow and searching, to lose time exploring her mouth, to try to hold back the dawn when she'll be gone and he'll be off again.

* * *

Jaime wakes in the morning to an empty bed, one of Brienne's shirts neatly folded on the side table, with a note in her steady handwriting on top of it. He smiles ruefully and reads her message. 

_Jaime,_

_I thought it was harder being the one left behind, but leaving is awfully difficult, too. I see why you left like this. Enjoy yourself. I'll see you soon. I love you._

_Brienne_

Her shirt smells like her, and he carefully packs it and the note away with the magnet and the rest of his things. Sends her a brief good morning text and wishes her a safe flight home. Smiles at her brief tirade about having to take her boots off in the security line. He realizes he's forgotten to ask about the plane ticket, but saves that for the break. A few more weeks on the road. More gigs, more publicity work, more travel stories with the band that have become his friends. And then Brienne at the end of it, patient and kind and home. 

Jaime settles his hat on his head, takes a last look around the hotel room, and then grabs his guitar and his bag and continues his tour.


	24. This life I chose, it's always been hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon nods and turns back to unpacking the box, while Brienne reviews inventory and bills and tries not to stare at the shot glass in its place of honor on the shelves behind the bar. Even though she can touch the glass to prove that it's real, her trip to New York still feels like it had been a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, hello. There will (almost assuredly) be a two-week break in posting again after this chapter. I've struggled with writing in the last few weeks and I still need to write my smut swap, and I only have one completed chapter of this fic in the hopper, and the next one about half-written, which makes me extremely anxious. So the two weeks will give me a chance to finish the exchange as well as hopefully get one more chapter done, and start on another one. I revise a lot, so the buffer helps both me and the story. Thanks for your patience!

“Wreath on the door or not?” Jon asks the Tuesday after Brienne gets back from New York. 

“Does it have Christmas stuff? Or is it just sort of generally wintry?” 

Jon looks at the fake wreath he's pulled out of the box. “Pinecones and fake snow.”

“Perfect. Put it on the door. We don't want people to feel excluded.” 

Jon nods and turns back to unpacking the box, while Brienne reviews inventory and bills and tries not to stare at the shot glass in its place of honor on the shelves behind the bar. Even though she can touch the glass to prove that it's real, her trip to New York still feels like it had been a dream. 

After Jaime had called her with the news about meeting with the record label, Brienne had been consumed with the idea of being there with him to celebrate – or commiserate, if needed. She'd been so distracted by it that when Ellaria and Oberyn had come for the Friday night concert – a regular occurrence as the tour weeks had gone on, and something Brienne looked forward to with a surprising amount of enthusiasm – Ellaria had immediately known something was up. 

“Are you upset about the news?” Ellaria had asked in a concerned tone. 

“No, not at all. I just... It's silly, but I wish I could be there,” Brienne had explained. 

“Why can't you? It's not like he's in another country.” 

“I can't just fly to New York. I have to pay for a hotel, and a plane ticket, and food. It's so last minute and over the holiday, it will cost too much just for a few days.” 

Ellaria had given her an unimpressed stare. “Brienne, you work eighty hours a week for this bar. It's closed for Thanksgiving, and your father is a capable man. Go see Jaime. I know you miss him, and I'm sure he misses you. He would be over the moon to see you.” 

Brienne had been fairly certain of that herself, though it helped to hear it. “But--”

“How many times will he be signed to a label?” Ellaria had interrupted. “Well... perhaps that's not the best example for Jaime in particular, but you understand me. Take some of the money you're hoarding away for emergencies and spend it on a ticket. Make Jaime pay for your food, and just stay with him in his room.” Then Ellaria's eyes had lit up. “In fact, you can surprise him.”

“I don't know,” Brienne had hedged. 

“Yes!” Ellaria had clasped her hands to her chest. “It will be so romantic – a surprise New York rendezvous. The band are all staying at the same hotel; we'll get Margaery to help you once you get in. Imagine Jaime's face when he sees you unexpectedly at his door!” 

Brienne had imagined it, and it had been that, combined with the rush of sudden yearning just to see him again, which had sent her over the edge. 

The trip had gone even better than she'd hoped, and it had been almost impossible to creep quietly out of the hotel room Saturday morning and leave Jaime behind. She's certain it would have been worse if she'd had to look at his beautiful face and tell him goodbye. It stuns her sometimes, how much she misses him for how relatively briefly she's known him, but he seems to feel the same about her. Every time he calls, all her fears about being left behind feel more distant, a little less real, and she hopes they continue to fade.

The bar is worry enough on its own. Ellaria hadn't been wrong: Brienne's been putting in intense hours trying to solidify the bar's foundations. With Jaime away, it's opened up plenty of time, and she's filled almost all of it working on the plan. She gives her dad discrete tasks where she can, and after Jon had asked repeatedly how he can help, she's started engaging him, too. But even with both of them, there's still almost more to do than she can handle some days. 

More than one night she's driven home, trying not to be furious with her father for all the ways his pride and reluctance to ask her for help had driven the bar to the brink. When she does, she can feel Jaime's weighty stare, Galladon's knowing smirk, and that just annoys her further. 

Jon pulls out a string of chili pepper lights and holds them up with a confused look on his face and Brienne grins. Her life isn't all work and missing Jaime. It's taken an ice-cold shock of immersion, but she talks to people more easily now, and she's not just friendly but friends with Ellaria, easy acquaintances with Catelyn and Oberyn. Even Jon, with whom she's had a pleasant working relationship, has become a good friend she's had beers with outside of work, after all this time side-by-side in it. It's made her days and nights sweating and swearing over the bar much more bearable. And there's Belle, of course, who's flopped on her dog bed in the office, chewing intently on a rope toy while they decorate. 

“What's the point of the chili peppers?” Jon asks, mystified. 

“They're fun, and non-denominational.”

“But they have nothing to do with winter.” 

Brienne shrugs. “My dad always puts them up; they've sort of become a winter thing for me. You were here last Christmas.” 

“I was, but I don't remember these.” He sets them aside, pulls out another string. 

They hadn't done much for the holiday last year, Brienne recalls now. Her father hadn't seemed interested in it, and she'd felt awkward trying to ask him. She hadn't realized how little input she'd really had into the bar until her father finally loosened the reins. 

“It's time to bring them back,” Brienne says firmly and Jon sets them aside without another word. “I'm almost done with this and then I can help you. Check that other box, too – I'm pretty sure we have dreidel lights in there.” 

He does, and they do, and as soon as she's finished she puts some Christmas music over the speakers and they decorate with snowflakes and Christmas trees, kinaras and menorahs, dreidels and chili peppers. The bar looks chaotic when they're done, but in a fun way, she hopes. Decorating isn't either of their strong suits. 

“What do you think?” she asks Jon as they stand there, Martina McBride singing “Silver Bells.” 

“It looks like we have no idea what the fuck we're doing.” 

Brienne laughs loudly. Jon has been hiding a blue tongue in the time they've worked together without really talking, and he lets it out frequently now that they're friends. “We don't, so I guess that's all right. Come on, let's put the boxes back in my truck and get ready to open.” 

It's Tuesday, new act night, and they have one coming in, a man who goes by the name Tom Sevenstreams. He's got a bare-bones internet presence, and she thinks he plays a banjo, though he might also play a lute. She's not picky on Tuesdays, though, and at least he should be interesting. 

The regular Tuesday crowd starts to filter in shortly after they open, and after the corporate workday ends, Catelyn, Lyanna, and Ellaria arrive as they do every Tuesday. Brienne gives them a wave when they enter and all three wave back, Ellaria peeling off with an excited grin to come see Brienne behind the bar while the other two women grab their usual table. 

“Well?” Ellaria demands as soon as she's near. “How was it? Margaery said she saw you for one meal and then not again. I hope that's a good sign.” 

“It was,” Brienne says, and she can't stop the smile that spreads across her face. “It was really good.” 

“I knew it!” Ellaria crows, slapping the bar with a loud crack. “Was he surprised? Did Margaery manage to keep it a secret?” 

“She was wonderful, Jaime had no idea. I, um, even managed to surprise him by being in his room before he got back.” 

Ellaria takes a seat on one of the stools and grabs Brienne's hands with her own. “I want to hear every lurid detail.” 

Brienne flushes. Ellaria has never been shy about her interest in Jaime, though it's never been in a threatening way. However, she's also gotten far more comfortable about sharing her interest in Brienne herself, too. Margaery hadn't been entirely joking at the cafe in New York. 

“There was a bath,” Brienne says, and Ellaria sighs dreamily. “It was a perfect trip.” 

“I will respect your privacy, but just know if you ever want to share more, I'm happy to listen.” Ellaria gives Brienne a warm smile, and pats her hands. “And if you ever want advice, I'm even happier to give it.” 

Brienne has to admit she's a little tempted to ask some questions; Ellaria seems much more worldly and experienced and open with her sexuality, and she probably has insight into a few things Brienne's been considering doing with Jaime. But even though they're friends here at the bar, Brienne's not sure she's ready to take it to a more personal level. 

Not yet, at least. 

Catelyn comes up to the bar, taking the question out of Brienne's hands entirely for the moment. “Good evening, Brienne,” she says. “Did you have a nice trip?” 

Brienne nods and starts getting their usual orders ready. “Did Ned appreciate you being home on Friday?” 

Catelyn laughs, her head thrown back. “You have no idea. He's very disappointed that this has not been a fad.” 

“He should come play some Tuesday,” Brienne says. 

“I told him the same, but he refused. I'll wear him down.” She takes her drink and hands over her credit card, and the three of them chat for a while, until Brienne needs to serve someone else and Ellaria and Catelyn head back to their table. 

It's so easy to talk to them that Brienne is still sometimes amazed by it. She's known their names for a year, but now she knows _them_ , too. How Ellaria loves to garden and shows off photos of her vegetables like they're her children; that Catelyn is in her early forties, and she has five kids, one of whom, they'd discovered through a series of hilariously escalating coincidences, is the same Arya that had been Belle's pet sitter. When Catelyn had texted her daughter with the realization, Arya's responding text had sent Catelyn into a spasm of laughter. 

_Ew!_ the message had started. _You've been losing your mind all these months over one of my clients?!_

Tom Sevenstreams comes in and he has a banjo _and_ a lute, and Brienne exchanges an amused look with Jon from across the bar. She watches Jon help Tom get situated, watches her customers talking happily, the noise a pleasant buzz that Brienne can feel in her bones. The chili pepper lights dangle in inelegant curves from the ceiling. The shot glass sits on the shelf behind her, gleaming under the fairy lights, a quiet reminder of Jaime. A memory she can touch. Brienne grew up in this bar, loves it as much as any member of her family, resents it in the same way. But fighting for it has made it _hers_ in a way it never has been before. 

She feels her life here now not as a duty, but as a gift. It's work – more work than she's ever put in before – and the future is still balanced on a knife's edge, though sometimes late at night as she's falling asleep she allows herself a little sliver of belief that it's finally turning her way. Brienne misses Jaime, his smiles and his touch, but he promised he'll come back and he's earned her trust. If they can just hold on, get a little lucky and work hard, they'll figure all this out – his growing career and her growing bar, and whatever else the road in front of them holds. The holidays and the end of the year are coming and for the first time in a long time, Brienne is looking forward to what lies ahead, not focusing just on what she's left behind. 

A customer Brienne hasn't seen before walks up, scanning the shelves for something to drink. Brienne smiles at him, finds even that comes more easily these days. 

“Welcome to Selwyn's,” she says. “What can I get for you?”

* * *

Brienne has talked to Jaime every night since New York, which is why she's surprised when he texts her Monday morning a week later with just a cryptic, _Watch this space. Eight pm tonight_ and a link. Her laptop is old and can handle streaming performances with as much grace as an elephant serving tea, but it's Monday so she's off and doesn't have any reason not to try. She sits on her sofa, Belle curled up at her side, and waits for the page to come up a few minutes before eight. 

The laptop loads the stream and there's a countdown clock that shows two minutes and thirty-eight, thirty-seven, thirty-six seconds. There's a header in big bold letters: JAIME LANNISTER – UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL and little else; just a bio that she's read several times already in news articles since the announcement of his signing, and a photo someone took of him onstage that makes her a little breathless every time she looks at it, even though she's seen that smirk in person when it's twice as deadly. 

The countdown clock hits the minute mark and Brienne idly reads the comment stream to the right of the video as she waits. It's busier than she would have expected; he really has gone viral online.

The active commenters seem to be mostly women, but there are some men, too. Even through the quick-moving chat, there are standouts. There's one woman, AliceOK, who seems sweet, if overly fond of exclamation points and capslock; and several others – including one with the screen name Debbie Hates Dallas – who are very upfront about how attractive they find Jaime. One of them, Charlene, hopes he's shirtless for the performance, and Brienne can't blame her. It is strange, though, watching other people lust after her boyfriend. To think of all the things she knows about him that they don't – that he takes his toast a little burnt, that he snores when he falls asleep on the couch, that he's ticklish when Brienne kisses his stomach. The facets that he keeps private and shows only to her. 

A few others are excited about the show, wondering what he'll play and complimenting his music, and Brienne feels a small thrill of pride. She screencaps a few of the better ones to share with Jaime later. 

The countdown clock hits zero and one of the commenters complains that they can't see anything yet, while another person counsels patience. Someone named Jeb harasses Debbie about her name and when she refuses to engage, he rage quits in a flurry of asterisked expletives that makes Brienne laugh. A second later, the clock fades to black and a logo fades in with a voiceover that states this is part of Country Music Radio's Up Close and Personal Series for up-and-coming artists. Brienne's never watched these before, but that's mostly because the internet out here is so lousy. For Jaime, she'll make an exception. 

The logo fades out and the commenters are quiet until it fades back in and there's Jaime, seated in what seems to be a small backstage space, looking at something off-camera. Brienne can't tear her eyes away from the familiar lines of his face, the eyes and lips and jaw she knows so well. He looks tired, extra shadows under the brim of his hat. 

“Now?” he asks, and instantly Brienne feels the deep and burrowing ache of missing him, just from that one word. There's a murmur of assent and then he looks straight at her through the stream and smiles. 

“Good evening,” he says. Belle's ears perk up and she stares curiously at the screen. “Thanks all--” his glance skates to the bottom of the screen, and though his smile doesn't waver, she sees the shock in his eyes, “--almost two thousand of you for tuning in tonight. This is the first time I've ever live-streamed anything, but I've got the extremely helpful Jeyne of Eagle's Nest Country Bar here so we should be just fine.” He winks at the person – Jeyne – offscreen and the comment section explodes with capslocked flailing that Brienne feels in her heart even though she's not going to type it. She's not even sure Jaime can see the messages; she hopes he does, if only to see how much people support him, but if he can then lord knows she'll hear all about the swooning later. 

He leans away from the screen again and she suddenly notices what he's wearing and the breathlessness is back, a tornado sucking the air from her lungs. The camera's only catching him from the knees up, and his thighs look good in his tight jeans, but it's the flannel shirt that has her reeling, because Brienne is one hundred percent certain it's the one she left for him in New York. 

Jaime is wearing _her shirt_ in a public performance. 

“When CMR asked me to do this I wasn't sure what I would perform, but then I had a little shot of inspiration,” he says, and he tugs at the shirt collar in a way that could just be natural but she _knows_ he's signaling her and Brienne's face is so hot she's afraid she's going to combust. 

Jaime leans down to pick up his guitar and he settles it in his lap with the easy care he always uses, brushing his hand over the body in a way that has half the commenters swooning. The other half are trying to guess what song he's going to sing, most of the guesses being covers or one of his old songs. AliceOK has retreated just to punctuation, words having apparently abandoned her since Jaime winked. 

Brienne's not sure she can form words herself, watching the way his shoulders move under the fabric of her shirt. Unlike when she wears it, he's got nothing else on underneath, and she's wondering if he even washed it, or if it still smells like her. 

Her stream stutters and she growls at her laptop before it rights itself again, jumping a little to Jaime mid-sentence. 

“-of my favorites from my demo album, and one I don't usually play live, so it seemed like the perfect choice.” 

There's a strum and then his guitar gently fills the echoing space left behind with delicate notes, and Brienne clasps her hands in front of her mouth. It's the song he'd sung months and months ago at his first encore. Jaime had told her he'd added this tune to the demo tracks late in the process of recording, tucked at the end, a quiet coda to an otherwise rollicking and sexy set of songs. It's one of her favorites, though she's never told him that, because it's so unexpected to hear such sweetness in his usually rough and ready voice. But it suits him, just as much as the rest of it. The song is about two people meeting and dancing around each other, the first blush of attraction, a song about the hope for and promise of more. Way down deep in her secret heart, every time she listens to it sitting in her truck in the dark, Brienne wonders if he thinks about her when he sings it. Watching him perform it in this stripped-down space, wearing the shirt she left behind, looking directly at the screen as he delivers some of the lines that she has tucked away, Brienne is certain he does. 

With nervous movements, she types in a screen name to leave a comment amongst the adoring flood. 

**BarkeepB:** I'm glad you played this one, it feels so personal

And then, because she can't help herself as he ends the song and looks at the screen, she adds:

**BarkeepB:** I like your shirt. Where'd you get it?

Brienne's not sure if he saw the first message, but she knows he sees the second one because his whole face lights up and he shifts his mischievous stare back to the camera. It feels like he can see her. 

“Why thank you, Barkeep,” he says, his mouth twitching into a sly smile. “It was an unexpected gift from a longtime, _devoted_ fan of mine.” 

She laughs and flushes, alone in the room, and shakes her head as he moves into one of his old songs. The commenters go with him, although Debbie Hates Dallas seems curious about his use of the word _devoted_. 

Brienne sits back and enjoys the mini concert. It's surprisingly intimate having him there onscreen in her living room, even though there are two thousand other people watching, too. The way he keeps making eye contact – with everyone, she knows rationally, but it feels like he's looking at her – the way he scans the chat after each song and she can tell when he reads her comments praising him. He doesn't address her directly again, but it feels like flirting in public – fun and a little illicit. 

At the end of the concert, he sets the guitar aside and thanks everyone for watching. There's a rush of commenters sending applause emojis and telling him how much they loved the show and his songs and him. He holds on long enough that she types her own message – _I miss you_ – which drops into the stream and then is washed away. 

_Me, too_ he mouths at the screen with a small smile, just before the feed goes dark. Brienne wraps her arms around herself and imagines she can feel the shirt warm from his body, smelling like him. That she can still hear his voice in her ear. She changes into his shirt that she'd brought back from New York, and for a moment it feels like they're together.

* * *

That Friday, the bar is about three quarters-full, a decent showing for a rainy December night. It's a themed singles' night, a tactic Gal had insisted would draw more and fresher faces. Brienne had been skeptical at best, but she has to admit it's brought in a younger, newer crowd. Dacey is leaning against the bar with Walda sitting on a nearby stool, and the three of them are scanning the crowd as they mingle. With Gal's help, Brienne had gotten donations from some local breweries in exchange for advertising, and most of the singles are testing the free cans of beer instead of ordering from the bar. 

“Doesn't that defeat the purpose of them ordering drinks from us?” she'd asked Gal when he'd suggested it. 

“Just for a night,” he'd assured her. “Besides, the free beer will run out and they'll want more, and it helps you build a relationship with the local breweries. I have some ideas for a mutually beneficial partnership with them in the future.” 

“You should get out there,” Walda's saying to Dacey. “Find some nice boy you can take home after the concert.”

Dacey snorts. “I'd rather find some terrible man. They're usually great in bed and then easy to kick back out again. Nice boys want to stay for breakfast.” 

Walda clucks her tongue disapprovingly, but Brienne knows it's mostly just an act. “You know, Roosey and I--”

“Stop,” Dacey begs. “I don't need to hear another paean to your boyfriend's sexual prowess.” 

“I was just going to say that sometimes breakfast can also lead to great sex.” 

Dacey groans and turns to Brienne. “Every day, I learn some new fact about Small's love life that I wish I didn't know.” 

“I'm not the one who fucked that groupie in the back of our van,” Walda sniffs. 

“I told you: I didn't know you were there.” 

“ _What?_ ” Brienne says, laughing in shock. 

“It was after a show when we were on a little mini-tour,” Dacey starts, and Brienne leans forward, eager for the tale, because Dacey has a knack for storytelling, when the door to the bar opens and she automatically looks that way as she always does, and sees Tyrion Lannister enter. 

Brienne straightens abruptly, staring at him. Dacey stops mid-sentence. 

“Brienne?” she asks. “Everything all right?” 

“Can you excuse me for a minute? I need to talk to someone,” she says. Tyrion is scanning the bar with a critical stare, before finally noticing her and heading her way. 

Dacey and Walda look at each other and disappear into the crowd just as Tyrion walks up. He seems smaller here, out of his element, but his presence is still a buffeting wave. 

“Brienne Tarth,” he says as he climbs up onto the stool Walda had vacated. “A pleasure to see you again.” 

“Tyrion,” she says hesitantly. “I'm surprised to see you here.” 

“I thought I'd come see how you were doing after your whirlwind visit to New York to see my brother. What do you recommend to drink?”

She's still trying to process the first part of his sentence, gestures out at the bar. “There's plenty of free beer samples to try.” 

“I'd rather have that whiskey you recommended to Jaime. He's grown quite fond of it.” Tyrion folds his hands on the bar, and there's nothing off-putting in what he's said, but she's uncomfortable anyway. But she does her job – grabs a glass, pours him a drink, hands it over without a word. Tyrion takes a long swallow and makes an appreciative noise. 

“He's right: it's excellent. I'll have a double.” 

Brienne pours him another finger and closes the bottle. “Did you... need something?”

Tyrion easily throws back half the glass and then gingerly sets it down on the bar. “I heard it was Singles' Night here tonight. And I am very single.” 

“Oh.” She has no idea what to make of that. “You came all the way down here for Singles' Night?” 

“Isn't that why you're having the event? Trying to drum up business from further away?” For all the warmth in Tyrion's voice, his eyes are calculating. She wonders how much Jaime's told him about the bar. 

“We're always trying to expand the bar's reach,” she says, hoping it doesn't give too much away. “We appreciate your business.” 

Tyrion hums a little. “Do you?” he murmurs, sounding distantly amused. He gestures with the whiskey glass. “You've got a moderate turnout tonight, for December. For how far out you are. Do you get a lot of drive-by customers?” 

“Sometimes. The road outside is fairly busy.”

“People don't like to pull into random bars, though.”

She tucks her arms around her chest. “Sometimes they do,” she insists. 

“Yet here you are, I'd say... a bit less than three-quarters capacity?” He's assessing the room again. “I imagine your gross is good, but your net is probably struggling if this is a Friday crowd.” 

“I don't really--”

“Brienne,” Tyrion says, twisting back around to face her fully. “This is good land – spacious, right by a well-traveled road, single building that doesn't have to compete for advertising space. You shouldn't be at three-quarters on a Friday night.” 

“I know that,” she snaps. “What do you want?”

Tyrion's mouth tightens, before his whole face smooths into a pleasant, surface friendliness. “Offering business advice to my brother's girlfriend, that's all.”

“I don't need your advice.”

“Ah, but I think you do.” Tyrion finishes off his drink. “I don't think you understand exactly how much you need my advice.”

“What did Jaime tell you?” she asks hoarsely. The door opens and she glances over, sees a few regulars enter. 

“Only that you're trying to grow your customer base. But give me some credit; I'm very good at what I do.” 

And it hits her, suddenly, what it is Tyrion Lannister does for his father. The way Lannister Development has made their fortune. They sniff out spaces for development, and attack relentlessly until the land is theirs. 

Brienne tightly grips the edge of the bar. “What are you doing here, Tyrion?” 

“Scouting,” he says simply, and her stomach flips over unpleasantly. “But I came in tonight, because I knew you'd be here.” 

“Trying to use your brother's connection to me for an inside deal?” she spits. 

He looks, bizarrely, hurt by that suggestion. “I love my brother. I'm trying to help.” 

Brienne barks out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Thanks for the warning that I'm on your father's list.” 

“It may be an old meme, but knowing _is_ half the battle. Would you rather be in the dark about what's at stake?”

“You don't think losing my father's bar is incentive enough?” 

He smiles, a wry twist of his lips. “Trust me when I say I would not fight for my father's company nearly as hard. Regardless,” he pushes his empty glass towards Brienne. “Nothing is happening for now. Your bar has been on Lannister Development's list for awhile. It's a long one, and we have other much more promising opportunities lined up ahead of you for now. This isn't a threat, Brienne. It's meant only as a helpful hint.” 

“If you want to help, why don't you get him to take us off his list entirely?” 

Tyrion snorts. “You truly do not know my family at all, do you?” He taps his fingers on the bar, examines her closely. She tries not to squirm under his cool judgment. “Jaime is not a representative sample of what a Lannister is really like. I know he's trying to keep you separate from all of that, but if your bar moves higher on the list, it won't be possible for him to not choose sides. I love my brother,” Tyrion says again, much more firmly. “And I won't lose him to you.”

Brienne inhales sharply, her head jerking back as though Tyrion's slapped her. It feels like it, his words resonating in her head. “I would never make him choose,” she whispers. 

“Our father will. And I fear that Jaime will choose you. I suspect he would choose you over most things, except his career.” 

“It doesn't have to be a competition,” she protests, leaning forward again. She doesn't shy away from Tyrion now. “He can have both.” 

“No, he can't. When he becomes truly famous – and he will, you know he will – you think it will be that simple? His music and his girlfriend balanced together? The music always comes first. I was young the first time he went through this, but I remember it. How it took him away, even after our mother died; how he never truly came back until he'd finally let it go.” Tyrion's ferocious, though he keeps his voice low. “It's a part of him that he'll never give up, not for his family, and certainly not for you. When you need him the most, it will be the music that keeps him away. And you'll let him go, because you love him and you think it's the right thing to do.” Brienne's never had someone look at her with such disgust and despair. “If you knew what was coming, you'd listen to me now: sell the bar so he doesn't have to choose between it and his family, and convince him the record deal is a bad idea before he flies away for good.” 

She's breathing hard, struggling against the vise around her heart. “I'm not gonna... clip his wings just to keep him here. It's not right.” 

“Then I hope you're ready to tell him goodbye.” Tyrion slides down off of the stool, slaps a twenty dollar bill on the bar and shoves it near her trembling hand until it slips over the edge, fluttering to the floor. “For the whiskey, and your time. Good luck, Brienne. You're going to need it.” 

He saunters back out, and Brienne leaves his money untouched on the ground all night.


	25. I'm just no damn good at not lovin' you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The memories of what Tyrion had said had barely left Brienne's thoughts since, and she'd struggled not to cry as she'd added, “I'm really looking forward to seeing you.” 
> 
> “Me too,” Jaime had said, rushed and heavy. “I've been thinking about it all week.” There'd been more background noise, and he'd covered the speaker with his hand, holding a brief, muffled conversation. “I've gotta go,” he'd said, coming back. “I'll see you tomorrow.” 
> 
> “I hope you'll do more than see me,” she'd delivered it in her best flirtatious tone, even though her heart was bleeding all through it. 
> 
> Jaime had laughed, that rich, happy sound she'd been missing. “I promise you that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even with all my trying to keep things short, this is a long chapter! There really wasn't a good place to cut it.

Brienne takes the day off on the Sunday that Jaime's supposed to be back in town. When she wakes up at six in the morning, unable to sleep even though she'd gone to bed well after midnight last night, she's extra-grateful for Jon agreeing to fill in. She and Jaime had talked around dinnertime the night before – Brienne in the bar's office, Jaime standing outside of the diner he and the band had stopped at for food. 

“Can you meet me at my apartment?” he'd asked. “That'll be quickest.” 

“Of course. What time do you think you'll get back?” 

“Ilyn assures us we'll be home before supper. So, three or four?” A semi truck had rumbled by in the background. 

“I'll be there.” The memories of what Tyrion had said had barely left her thoughts since, and she'd struggled not to cry as she'd added, “I'm really looking forward to seeing you.” 

“Me too,” Jaime had said, rushed and heavy. “I've been thinking about it all week.” There'd been more background noise, and he'd covered the speaker with his hand, holding a brief, muffled conversation. “I've gotta go,” he'd said, coming back. “I'll see you tomorrow.” 

“I hope you'll do more than see me,” she'd delivered it in her best flirtatious tone, even though her heart was bleeding all through it. 

Jaime had laughed, that rich, happy sound she'd been missing. “I promise you that. I love you, darlin'.”

“I love you, too, cowboy.” He'd chuckled again and hung up, and for the rest of the night, she'd tried to hear his laughter over the echo of Tyrion's words. 

Now it's just past one and she's already gathering her stuff and Belle to get in Jaime's truck and drive to his apartment. She wants to be there the second he arrives, and Ilyn might get them in early if Jaime pushes him. By the time she pulls up it's just past two, and when she unlocks the door, Belle goes barreling inside, sniffing every square inch of the living room. Brienne's kept Belle at her house the entire time, including during the few trips she'd taken just to check on Jaime's apartment, and the dog seems ecstatic to be back. She jumps up onto the recliner and then perks her ears forward at a noise from the bedroom.

Brienne stills, her heart pounding. Belle woofs before flying off of the chair and Brienne hurries after her. There's the scrabbling of claws, more barking – louder and echoing this time – and then she hears Jaime shout, “Belle, no!” before there's a splash and he's cursing emphatically. 

When she reaches the bathroom, Brienne bursts into wheezing laughter at the sight of Belle climbing up Jaime's bare chest as he tries to shove her off, the two of them in what had previously been a full bath, and was now about half-full, water puddling everywhere. 

“Like owner, like dog,” Brienne manages, and Jaime starts laughing, too, and Belle barks, high-pitched yips that ricochet all around the bathroom in a happy rainfall. 

“Help me out?” Jaime pleads, and Brienne does, pulling the dog carefully off of him, trying to help him avoid her claws raking his most sensitive parts. They wrangle her out of the tub and Brienne wraps her up in a towel while Jaime, still in the bath, examines his chest and legs. “No major damage,” he reports and it's only in that moment she realizes he's really here, and she lets Belle go – distracting her with a few treats Brienne always keeps in her pocket – to wrap Jaime in her arms, soaking her shirt. He grunts with the force of it and then presses his head against hers. 

“Hi,” he murmurs into her ear, holding her tight.

Her heart is pounding and he smells like water and wet dog and _Jaime_. “What are you doing here?” she asks, not letting go. 

“We got back earlier than I thought.” 

She kisses his shoulder, tastes water and skin. “Why didn't you tell me?” 

“I wanted to return the surprise.” 

Brienne puts the slimmest of space between them so she can meet his eyes. He's smiling, wide and breathtaking, and she kisses him hard. “I wasn't supposed to be here for another hour. Were you just gonna sit in there and turn into a raisin?” 

“I knew you'd come over early,” he says, and then kisses her more slowly, a thorough, persistent reminder of all the ways he knows her. Brienne kicks Belle out of the bedroom and Jaime rises, dripping, from the bath. He leads Brienne to his bed, and gets her wet all over.

* * *

Later, dried off and half-dressed, they're in Jaime's kitchen, perusing takeout menus for dinner. Or rather, Brienne is perusing menus and he's mostly staring at her: the angle of her chin, the arc of her ear. It's the same as it's always been, but in the familiarity of his apartment it feels more like a memory than it had when they were in New York. 

“I'll have to go shopping later,” he tells her. “We've had so much takeout over the last few months, I'm missing home-cooked food something fierce, even ones I cook myself.” 

Brienne smiles at him from across the counter. “I can make you something tomorrow.” 

“Yeah? How long you staying?” 

She picks at the curving corner of one of the more well-used menus. “I was hoping til Tuesday, if you're not busy.” 

He covers her hand with his, stilling it. “I'm not busy at all. I have to call Varys and Petyr sometime tomorrow, but the rest of my time is yours. However you want to use me.” 

Her blush is swift and pink, as he'd hoped, but there's a fire in her eyes that has him tugging her closer over the counter to kiss her. “I have some ideas,” she murmurs, and he briefly considers skipping dinner, but he's hungry. Besides, he'll need the fuel. 

They settle on food from their favorite local barbecue joint – Jaime never did find its match on the road – but Brienne's still fiddling with the menus even after they order. “Having second thoughts on dinner?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” She sets the menus down, smooths them out with one hand, trying to flatten the creases she's made. “Have you talked to Tyrion recently?” 

Jaime sits back on the stool, considering her. “No,” he says slowly. “Should I have?”

“Not especially.” Brienne's very intent on those menu creases, a deep furrow between her brows.

It's quiet then; he can hear Belle scratching herself in the living room. Jaime doesn't know why, but there's a clenched tension in his stomach. “Why did you ask me about Tyrion?” Brienne glances near him, but doesn't quite meet his eyes, and his whole body goes tight. “What did he do?”

“He stopped by the bar last week,” she tells him. 

“Why?”

“To talk to me. To warn me, really.” Jaime stretches across the counter and takes her hand. “About the bar.” 

“Brienne, I swear I didn't tell him anything.” 

“I know you didn't.” She squeezes his hand, and finally meets his anxious stare. Her smile is small and fleeting, but sincere. “Your dad's company has had their eye on Selwyn's for a while, apparently.” 

“Fuck.” Jaime runs his other hand through his hair. “That's why I heard the name of the bar at work. Someone must have mentioned it in passing.” 

“So you... you didn't know?” She asks it so casually that he gets up and comes around the counter, slipping his arms around her waist, keeping his eyes on hers the whole time. 

“I promise I had no idea. I just thought it was lucky timing – I needed somewhere to play, and your bar crossed my path. I still think it was the best luck I ever had,” he adds, and this time her smile is deeper, longer-lasting. 

“Me too.” She kisses him; he can taste the relief.

“I can go talk to my dad about getting the bar off of his list.” 

“Do you think that'll work?” 

Jaime shakes his head. “Not a chance. But I'll do it anyway.” 

“You don't need to. Tyrion said we weren't in immediate danger, and as long as I can keep making progress – even as slow as it is – your father won't have the opportunity to steal it away.” She rubs her fingers along his bare shoulders. “I don't want to come between you and your family, Jaime.” 

The idea that Brienne is not also his family feels absurd to him, but of course she isn't. She's his girlfriend, the woman that he loves, his muse in some respects, but there's been no talk of more between them, no matter how much coming home meant coming back to her. Jaime rubs his nose along the curve of her cheek and pushes the thoughts away. _I've been gone too long_ , he thinks. _That's all this is._

“Did Tyrion say anything else?” he asks her. 

She's quiet for a moment, her eyes fluttering closed as he presses a soft kiss to her jaw. “No,” she finally says. “Just that.” 

“Good. I _will_ talk to him, though, and tell him not to ambush you again. I know you can handle yourself,” he says when he feels her start to speak. “Just let me do this one thing for you, Brienne. Please.” 

She sighs, relaxing into his embrace as she does. He holds her tightly. “All right,” she says, “Just about ambushing me, though, not the rest of it. I don't want to be a wedge between the two of you.” 

“You couldn't.” He and Tyrion are all too accomplished at driving their own wedges, they don't need her help with that. And Brienne would never ask that of him, anyway. 

She makes a noncommittal noise in her throat. “When will dinner be here?” 

“We've got about twenty minutes at least. Why?”

She slides her hands under the waistband of his sweatpants and palms his ass, pulling him more firmly against her. “I'm hungry,” she says, her voice deep and hoarse and shooting straight to his groin. 

He rolls his pelvis against hers, slow, and she gasps. “I don't want to spoil your dinner.” 

Brienne snickers a little, but her fingers dig in. “Stop talking, we don't have that much time.” 

“Don't worry,” he says, sliding his hands under her shirt to her heated skin. “I'll tip double if they come before you do.” 

Her laughter fills the kitchen, the loud, marvelous noise of it washing over him. 

When their food arrives, Jaime looks over at Brienne, flushed and sated leaning against the counter, her mouth pink and kiss-swollen, and he tips double anyway.

* * *

They spend most of their nearly two days together in his apartment. Their only outings are to take Belle into the cold air to go to the bathroom a few times a day, and grocery shopping Monday in an hour-long spree that ends with enough food to feed an entire venue's worth of people. 

“Why did we get so many apples?” she says when they get back and are putting food away. 

“You said you liked them,” he says from the fridge. He's never been so grateful for the size of his refrigerator before. 

“How many apples a day do you think I eat?” she asks, laughing as she holds up the bag, and Jaime realizes he's planned for her to be here for the next two weeks. But she has to leave on Tuesday, go back to work and to her house, and he'll be busy soon with recording, among other things. He'd spoken to Varys first thing that morning and Petyr right after, and they both have a list of tasks for him already. Then the weekend is Christmas, which means Christmas Eve with his family and Christmas Day with hers. Another week of activities already laid out by his manager and producer, then New Year's, and then he'll be on the road again a couple of days after that. Two weeks had seemed so much longer when it was keeping him away from home. 

Tuesday morning after Brienne leaves, Jaime stares balefully at the bag of apples. They don't have concrete plans to see each other until Friday night – she's working the rest of the week because Jon is sick and Jaime's recording late and in meetings and interviews early. They've both promised to make _some_ time, but it'll be too short and too infrequent. Jaime had wanted to be cocooned with her for as much of the two weeks as he could. Every moment is a gift, but he's greedy for more. It feels worse being so much closer to her and still far away. But Friday is Christmas Eve, and the bar is closed. He just has to make it to Friday. 

It's more difficult than he expects. The initial recording session Tuesday night goes badly. It's not the small, easy studio with Jojen; this time they're in one of the Littlefinger Record studios, a finely tuned, high-stress atmosphere where every minute in the booth is costing someone money, and that someone is loud about it. Petyr stops by halfway through and listens from behind the glass with a small frown. When they finish the take, Jaime sees Petyr lean near the engineer, say something, fiddle with a few buttons, and then pat the other man on the shoulder. It's the only time Jaime sees Petyr in person all week, and it would be more of a relief if they didn't talk on the phone every day. 

He has a habit of calling Jaime before nine in the morning, too, so that Jaime's starting to hate the sound of his ringtone by Friday. It's seven-thirty when Petyr calls on Friday morning and Jaime answers with a sharp, “What?” 

“Good morning to you, too,” Petyr says unperturbed. “You have an appointment for a haircut at nine.”

Jaime rubs the sleep from his eyes, or tries to, but they'd been recording until nearly two this morning to make up for lost time. He needs more than five hours sleep to face his family this evening, but he's not going to get it. 

“I didn't make any hair appointments.”

“It's part of your preparations. You have photos on Monday and I want to give a few days for the style to settle.”

Jaime sits up, swinging his legs to the floor and trying to think clearly through the exhausted, barely-awake haze. “I don't want a haircut.” 

“You need one. It's part of your rebranding.” Petyr's already done some wardrobe upgrading; nothing intense, thankfully, but fancier than Jaime has worn in years. The look is carefully cultivated: no hat most of the time, and when he does wear it, tilted just so; black boots only, for reasons Jaime can't figure out; designer shirts and occasionally suits for photos and bigger venues. And two necklaces, which had felt like an odd request when Petyr had made it, but had seemed harmless enough until Petyr had told him what he wanted them to be. 

“I don't have a problem with necklaces,” Jaime had said when he'd called Brienne Thursday morning to talk about it. “But a cross? No way. And a Lannister lion isn't any better.” 

“You can't talk him into a third option?” she'd said. 

“The moon _was_ my third option. That's one of the two I'll wear, but he's digging in on the second one.” 

“It doesn't make any sense. What does he care?” 

“He says country music fans want to see me connected to either religion or family, or I won't be 'suitable' enough for them.” That had been an extremely ugly side-argument Jaime had barely avoided with Petyr. 

“That's bullshit,” Brienne had said, which at least had soothed Jaime's own anger. “What are you going to do?” 

“I don't know,” he'd admitted. “Every decision feels like a battle, like I'm constantly ceding and taking ground. If I stand for this, will I lose something more important later? It all feels so fake.” 

“Well...” Brienne had sighed a little, sounding as unhappy with it as he was. “You are a Lannister, you haven't hidden from that. It seems like that would be less of a lie.” 

Jaime had had that same thought. “I don't want any part of my father to be connected to this,” he'd admitted. “Not this time.” 

“Then I guess you fight this battle.” 

So he had, and now he wears two necklaces: one a moon, the other a sun. He thinks of them as representing Brienne and himself, and it's no trouble at all to put them on Friday morning as he acquiesces to the haircut when Petyr makes noise about Jaime not wanting to be seen as difficult around the label. 

_Difficult_ is exactly what Jaime's been trying to avoid; it's why he's made so many compromises during the recording sessions, why he's agreed to include two of his old songs on his new record, as well as a cover at Petyr's request, and a song by one of the label's stable of writers. _It'll be fine_ , he tells himself with every decision, but the ground feels a little more unsteady with each session. At least the band is there, and they seem pleased by the initial results. 

The haircut includes a shave, too, and after the hairdresser is done, Jaime keeps rubbing the artful layer of stubble they've left on his jaw, the back of his neck that feels oddly bare with the much shorter hair style. They've left him some curls on top, but it's all very modern and trim, the gold somehow more golden. Jaime examines himself in the provided mirror and struggles to picture that man singing his songs. The hairdresser takes a photo that Jaime sends to Petyr at Petyr's request. The response back is simple: _Perfect. I want you looking just like this on Monday._

When Jaime opens his apartment door for Brienne later that afternoon, it's worth it for the comically shocked face she makes when she sees him, the high blush that appears almost immediately on her cheeks. 

“Oh... my god,” she says. “Who did that to you?”

Jaime smirks and lets her in, kissing her once the door is closed. “A trained professional.” He pulls back and narrows his eyes at her. “Is it all right?” 

“Yeah,” she says quickly, with a kind of shocked laugh. She trails one nail gently down his jaw and then bites her lower lip. Jaime knows her well enough now to know exactly what she's thinking, and he crowds her against the hall wall. “It's really good,” she breathes, looping her arms around his neck and scratching at the fuzzy hair left at the nape. 

“You're not gonna miss the longer hair?” he murmurs against her neck and she shivers a little. “Because you sure do seem to like holding onto it.”

“I'll find other parts of you to hold onto,” she says and he wishes they didn't have to leave for his father's so soon or he'd take her back to his bedroom to test out a few of the other options. 

“I was skeptical of the look,” he says, pressing his mouth to the pulse picking up speed in her throat. “But if you like it, then I like it.”

“I like it. I like you.” He feels her words through his lips. “You better stop or we're gonna be late.”

“I don't mind being late.”

Brienne snakes her hand between them and pushes gently at his chest. He moves back with a rueful smile. “Your father will mind,” she tells him. “And this is my first time meeting him.” 

Jaime tugs a little at her hair, which he can tell she's tried to style for the evening. She's got it mostly pulled back into a utilitarian bun, but she's left some tendrils curling around her face. It softens her features, and he can see she's put on a light layer of makeup, too. Just like him, she looks the same, but different. She's also wearing a dress, simply cut and navy-colored, and Jaime takes a step back to really look at her. 

“You look nice.” 

She flushes a little, looks down at herself and smooths out the skirt of her dress. “I wasn't sure how dressed up to get.” 

“It's perfect. More than this and the nuns might think you're a harlot.” Brienne looks stricken at that and he takes her hand. “It's a joke, darlin'. You'll be fine. I'm just happy to have you there.”

Brienne squeezes his hand and they walk into the living room, greeting Belle when she realizes who's here. There's an easy familiarity between Brienne and his dog now; it's clear their time together while he was gone had bonded them, and it floods Jaime with a happiness so huge that it's hard to breathe around it. Now if only he could convince Tyrion to put away his bullshit long enough to really get to know Brienne, too.

They haven't talked since Jaime's returned; he'd tried to call Tyrion during a free hour on Wednesday, but his brother had either been busy or ignoring him, and his texts have been vague and infrequent. Jaime intends to corner Tyrion at some point tonight. Hopefully _before_ his little brother gets too drunk. 

Jaime gets ready while Brienne tells Belle to be good while they're gone, glances at himself in the full-length mirror in his bedroom and shakes his head at the reflection there. He's dressed up a little himself: dark dress pants, a light pink button-up shirt he knows will annoy his father, his two necklaces tucked close to his chest under the shirt. He runs his fingers through his short hair again. His head feels so _light_. His father will appreciate that change; Jaime had been pushing his father's bounds of propriety just by having shoulder-length hair. 

“You know,” Jaime calls out from the bedroom, “we can leave at any time if you're uncomfortable.” He peeks down the hallway and sees Brienne peering back at him. 

“You've said that. Several times.” 

Jaime tugs at his cuffs and then joins her in the living room. “I mean it. I have to torture myself with them, they're my family. You don't owe them anything.” 

Brienne's jaw tightens, and she looks down at Belle. “They are your family,” she quietly agrees. “I won't make you leave early.” 

There's some undercurrent here that Jaime's not sure of, but he can't tell if it's just nerves or something else. His watch is telling him they're already late out the door, so he grabs Brienne's hand and kisses it. “You're sure about this?”

He watches her gather herself, the way her body lifts as she pulls her shoulders back. “I'm ready,” she says firmly. 

Jaime is almost certain neither of them is, but he gives her a carefree grin, grabs the bag full of presents they're bringing, and pats Belle on the head. “Then here we go.”

* * *

The Lannister Family Home, as his father likes to call it, is a sprawling mansion on six acres of forested land. Brienne's eyes get progressively bigger as they drive down the winding road, circle around the huge driveway, and park in front next to several other cars. The house will be full of Lannisters tonight, and for a moment Jaime almost starts the car back up to whisk Brienne away. 

“Wow,” she says, peering out the windshield. His father has had the house professionally decorated, just like every year. The brick facade is lit with white Christmas lights strung in military precision along the lines of the house, and there are curling green garlands around the four towering columns out front. Even the bushes are twinkling, and the sound system carries the faint sounds of classical Christmas music when they get out of Jaime's truck. 

“You grew up here?” she asks, craning her head back to take in the huge arch of the doorway. Lights are shining warmly from inside. The door has been papered to look like a wrapped present. 

Jaime presses the doorbell and she looks at him askance. “I grew up here,” he says, “but I'm a guest now.” Brienne takes his hand. 

His Uncle Kevan opens the door, and the introductions begin. Kevan greets Brienne with a handshake and introduces her to his wife, Dorna, who gives Brienne a welcoming hug and leads her away for the tour. Jaime extricates himself from his uncle's impatient questions about his record contract to follow after them. 

Seeing the house through Brienne's eyes, he can understand her disbelief that a child had ever lived here. The interior design is just shy of museum-quality, the furniture mostly looks unused and painfully clean, and there are enough sharp corners and hard floors to terrify even the most lackadaisical parent. It's been like this as long as Jaime can remember, though he recalls there being more mess allowed when his mother was alive, toys strewn in places no toys could touch now, like his father's office. Even with two siblings, a house this big had always felt lonely, except on days like today. 

They run into Kevan's kids – Jaime's cousins – on the tour, and more introductions are made. Jaime eyes them all carefully, gauging their response to Brienne. Mostly there's abiding interest that for the first Christmas Eve ever, Jaime has brought someone along. That the someone is Brienne is just an additional oddity to an already unusual situation. His Uncle Tyg is here, too, though Tyrek is not, and Jaime's favorite cousin, Joy, waves happily from the sun room when Dorna leads them inside. 

He gives Joy a big hug and then steps back to introduce her to Brienne, who accepts another hug with the same surprised look she'd had when Dorna had done it. 

“Can we expect an appearance from Gerion tonight?” Jaime asks, and Joy rolls her eyes. 

“No. He's decided he's not talking to Tywin again.” 

“God, what now?” 

Joy's normally bright features go dark and she squeezes Jaime's arm. “Because of you. Your dad is furious, Jaime, and he hasn't been shy about it.” 

Jaime can feel Brienne's worried gaze, but he smiles gamely for Joy. “My father's never been shy about any of his opinions, that's no surprise.” Joy and Brienne have matching concerned expressions and Jaime waves them off. “It's fine. Truly.” The doorbell sounds through the house and Jaime looks up at the small speaker hidden in the ceiling in relief. “Come on, time to meet the rest of them.” 

As Jaime leads Brienne back to the front hall, she asks, “Gerion's your uncle, right?” 

“Yep. The best of them. And Joy is his daughter with an unmarried woman.” 

“The scandal,” Brienne says wryly, and Jaime nods, serious.

“In this family? Yes.” 

The new arrivals are Aunt Genna and her brood and their families, who must have caravaned in together. Cleos is loaded down with presents, and Kevan directs him to the side room where they're being stored. They all bring presents, but they never open them together. Instead, one of his father's lackeys sorts them out while they have their dinner, and then as everyone leaves for Mass they'll be handed their gifts, to sneer at the choices in private and send fake grateful thank you notes later. It's all very tidy. Jaime's never enjoyed it. 

When Genna spots Jaime, she heads straight for him and he barely has time to warn Brienne – who's gotten distracted admiring the enormous Christmas tree again – before Genna is upon them. 

“Bless my soul, look at you,” Genna says to Jaime, pressing her hand to her chest where it's nearly spilling out of her dress. “Who cleaned you up?” 

“My new record label.” She gives him an air kiss and he's enveloped by her potent perfume. 

“We'll have to send them a fruit basket – you look marvelous.” She tugs his ear and pinches both his cheeks, which makes Brienne snicker. “So handsome. And who is this?”

“This is my girlfriend, Brienne.” He rests his hand lightly low on her back, hoping to provide her strength if she needs it. “Brienne, this is my aunt, Genna Lannister.” 

The two women shake hands. The only huggers in the family are the ones who didn't grow up as Lannisters. “Brienne Tarth, I've heard a lot about you,” Genna says, and Jaime goes on alert. “Tyrion tells me you own a bar – Selwyn's?”

“I run it,” Brienne says hesitantly. “It's my dad's bar.” 

“Isn't that wonderful. We Lannisters do appreciate family being involved in business together.” That's pointed enough that Jaime scoffs, but Genna ignores him. “Though I suppose you're aware of that as well.” 

“Jaime has told me a lot about your family,” Brienne says. She says it in such a neutral tone that Jaime wonders if he's imagining the sharpness underneath, except Genna seems like she hears it, too. 

“I'm sure he has _many_ things to say about the rest of us. But here he is, just like every other Lannister, enjoying the fruits of his father's labor.” 

“Someone has to enjoy them, since my father seems so set on never enjoying anything,” Jaime says tightly. 

Genna purses her lips at him, in a look he's familiar with from his teenage years, and then pats Brienne awkwardly on the shoulder. “That's our Jaime, always quick with a snappy reply. I can't imagine how you put up with him.” 

“He's kind to me.” Brienne already looks upset enough that Jaime's rethinking his plan of leaving her with Genna while he talks to Tyrion. “I enjoy being with him.” 

“I see.” Those two words might as well be a paragraph. 

The doorbell rings again and Jaime exhales, relieved. He gently tugs Brienne back to his side, in time to see Tyrion walk through the door. Brienne goes even more stiff, and Jaime is more deeply regretting bringing her with every additional Lannister. She'd insisted repeatedly she wanted to meet his family, even with Tyrion as her only example. Jaime should have protected her from them anyway. 

“Brienne,” Tyrion says, heading directly for them. “I wondered if he'd rope you into this.” 

“I asked to come,” she replies, her tone far more serious than this deserves. “It's important Jaime spend time with his family, and I want to support him in that.” 

“Yes, family is very important to Jaime.”

“This all feels very direct and weighty,” Jaime interjects dryly, and they both look at him, almost embarrassed. Whatever Tyrion told Brienne when he went to the bar, Jaime is certain it hadn't stopped at just intimidating her with Lannister Development's intentions. “Tyrion, can I talk to you alone?”

“Already? Before I've even gotten one drink in me?” 

“I suspect you already have several drinks in you.”

“Guilty as charged,” Tyrion says with a wide smile. “Are you sure you dare leave your girlfriend alone amongst the lions?” 

Jaime glances at Brienne. If Tyrion had thought her some sort of meek prey, the way she's pulled herself to her full height, the ready tension in her long arms, puts the lie to that assumption. Nonetheless, Jaime doesn't want to leave her entirely on her own. “You can go talk to Joy – she's only half-Lannister so she's decent.” 

Tyrion's sarcastic reply is swallowed by the doorbell again, and this time Cersei and her family enter. She spots Jaime and starts to wave until her eyes drift to Brienne, and then Tyrion. She makes a face but says something to Kevan and heads their way. 

“Heads up,” Tyrion notes. “Incoming attack.”

Brienne frowns and then Cersei is there, gesturing expansively. “Brother!” she exclaims. “I've missed you!”

“And yet you didn't come see me when we stopped near DC to play,” he says, kissing her cheek. 

“It's so difficult to get out of the city on a Thursday night, Jaime, you have no idea.” She is perfectly made up, her hair styled in softly falling waves, her dress crimson and gold and expensive. She scans him critically. “You've finally taken my advice and gotten a stylist, I see.” 

“My label got one for me.”

“I should have known,” Cersei says, with the patronizing disappointment she's so well-practiced at. “It's a good look on you. Except the shirt – Father will hate that.”

Jaime grins. “I know.” Next to him, Brienne shifts and he takes her hand. He knows Cersei is examining every last inch of his unusual girlfriend, and he forces himself not to leap in front of Brienne. He's hoping Cersei's dislike of making a scene in front of her children will keep her in line. “Cersei, this is Brienne Tarth.” 

“The girlfriend,” she says, holding out one elegantly manicured hand. Her nails are crimson, too. “We finally meet.” 

Brienne takes his twin's hand, and the difference is noticeable: Brienne's hand swallows Cersei's, her skin is paler, her nails are short and blunt compared to Cersei's sharp points. “Nice to meet you,” Brienne says very politely. 

“Jaime must be very fond of you to bring you here.” 

“I am,” Jaime says, shooting Brienne a warm smile. She returns it, less vibrant than he's used to seeing, but he doesn't blame her.

“Hm,” Cersei says, arching one eyebrow in a practiced move. “Has she met Father yet?”

“He's waiting to make a grand appearance, as usual,” Tyrion says. “Hello, Cersei.”

“Hello, Tyrion.” She makes greeting him sound like he'd asked her to pronounce him King of the World. Robert bellies up to the group, his powerful cologne announcing him. He's as tall as Brienne and slightly broader, coarse black hair poking out from his shirt cuffs. He seems more bear than man sometimes. When he holds out one meaty paw to shake, Jaime takes it, knowing he's in for a brief and unnecessary competition. Jaime's hand is a little achy when he pulls it back. 

“What the fuck happened to you?” Robert booms at Jaime. 

“His record label,” Cersei answers for him. 

“Who is this?” The look he gives Brienne is not uninterested, and Jaime feels his hackles rise. Robert Baratheon is a known flirt and Cersei's admitted that he's cheated at least once. Jaime had hoped he'd be on good behavior tonight, but Robert only has his normal behavior, and it's never been in the neighborhood of good. It's not even in the same city. 

“This is Brienne, my girlfriend,” Jaime says, emphasizing the last word. 

Brienne holds her hand out, and Robert takes it, kisses her knuckles as she stares, wide-eyed. 

“I don't think I've ever met a woman so tall before. You must be mostly leg,” he says, leering, and Brienne yanks her hand back, her mouth thinning with annoyance. 

“Robert, darling,” Cersei cuts in. Jaime has seen her handle her husband in many such uncomfortable situations. Jaime barely understands why they'd gotten married, but he'll never understand why Cersei stays. Robert has gotten worse every year, and Cersei is beautiful and clever, has enough money as a Lannister that she doesn't need Robert's. But she stays with him on his climb through the political ranks and she puts up with his awful behavior and engages in her own. Jaime's almost positive she's cheated, too. He's learned his lesson about trying to engage her on this subject though; a year after they got married, Jaime had tried to step in, certain his sister had needed rescue. She'd run him off, instead, and then refused to speak to him for almost a year afterward. 

Jaime doesn't mind a fight, but he's not going to fight the person he's trying to help, too. So he leaves her be, the two of them unable to understand each other's choices, but fundamentally bonded by being twins. Even now, Jaime would help Cersei in an instant if she asked. He's positive she never will. 

There's a slight surge in murmuring from the main room and their father appears, dressed in a crisp, deep green suit with a red handkerchief, his shoes clicking imperiously on the hardwood floor. Jaime's spine straightens, years of derisive comments about his posture drilled into him. He's not the only one, though – Cersei's chin lifts, her shoulders pulling back; even Tyrion pulls himself together. 

“Grandfather!” Cersei's two youngest kids shout, and Tywin gives them welcoming nods. The littlest one, Tommen, clings to Cersei's leg, and Joffrey stands with his arms folded over his chest, but Myrcella makes a good showing of it, curtseying prettily when Tywin joins them, studiously ignoring Jaime. 

“Father,” Cersei says, air kissing him on each cheek. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” he says in his patrician tones. His voice resonates in the entryway; Jaime suspects that's why he greets everyone here. “Robert.”

“Tywin!” Robert shakes his hand and slaps Tywin on the shoulder, and Jaime doesn't hide his smirk at his father's expression of restrained disapproval. “You look fantastic, old man.” Jaime doesn't like Robert, but he does appreciate the man's utter lack of fucks-giving in the face of deep Lannister disdain. 

Tywin ignores it and nods at his youngest son. “Tyrion.” 

Tyrion looks like he wishes he had a drink to salute with, or possibly pour on their father's shoes. “Father. You look unusually Christmas-y tonight. Should we expect a 'surprise' photo op at the service later?” 

“One must always be prepared.” Finally, once he has no other choice, he looks at Jaime. “You came.”

“You sound surprised.” 

“I wasn't sure how far your dereliction went.” His father's gaze lingers on Jaime's shirt, and his lip curls, but Cersei's not the only one who loathes public displays, and with most of the Lannisters here – and Brienne to boot – Tywin keeps his response to that. 

“Mr. Lannister,” Brienne says, startling all of them. She shifts a step ahead of Jaime, and he knows she's doing it to shield him, to drag all of Tywin's attention to herself, and Jaime goes hot and sparking all over, like she's shocked him with a thousand watts of electricity. Brienne's been barely tolerated by nearly every person they've met tonight, knows that Jaime's father will be the worst of them, but here she is stepping forward towards the firing squad on his behalf. “My name is Brienne Tarth,” she says. She's not bothering to try to shake his hand, which is a smart move on her part. “I'm the daughter of the man that owns Selwyn's.”

“I'm aware,” Tywin says, his tone pleasantly neutral. But there's a tense line in his temples. 

“I'm also dating Jaime.”

“I'm aware of that, as well. Are you also going to tell me you're tall, since you seem set on sharing information I already know?” Jaime can hear himself in his father's knife-edged tone; he's used that voice on enough business targets over the years. The realization is like seeing himself in an unpleasantly distorted mirror – he knows it's wrong but it's still him. 

Brienne keeps her voice low, her hands hanging loose at her sides. Jaime's seen her use this same posture and approach with potentially dangerous drunks at the bar. “I just want to make it clear, Mr. Lannister, that in case you were thinking of changing either of those things, they're not subject to your approval. And neither am I.” 

The small circle witnessing the scene all hold their breaths; it feels like the tense anticipation between shooting off a firework and seeing the explosion. Jaime waits for his father to throw Brienne out, which means Jaime will happily go, too. 

But instead of any of that, Tywin smiles. It's not pleasant, but it's not cruel, either. “I admire your forthrightness, Ms. Tarth. I believe we understand each other.” He gives her a sharp, respectful nod, and turns to the rest of the gathering to greet them, as well. Cersei eyes Brienne with a narrowed look, and she and Robert join him, leaving Brienne, Jaime, and Tyrion on their own. 

Tyrion whistles low. “Balls of fucking steel,” he says. “Now I _really_ need a drink.” 

“I think Brienne does, too.” She huffs and nods in agreement. Jaime takes her hand, squeezing it. Her eyes are a little wild around the edges, but she feels solid in his grip. “I'll go with Tyrion and get you something. I'll be back in a few. Look for Joy,” he reminds her, before walking off with his brother. 

There's a bar set up in the main room near a table filled with appetizers, but Tyrion leads them down the hall to the study, and pulls out his father's personal stash of bourbon. 

“Trying to outdo Brienne?” Jaime asks when Tyrion pours a generous glass. He holds up the bottle in question and Jaime agrees to his own. 

“Everyone has to do their part to annoy our father,” Tyrion says, clinking his glass against Jaime's before easily downing half of it. He gasps. “Miracle the man is still alive, drinking this regularly.” 

“I think he savors it a bit more than you do.” It is strong, an almost acidic burn when it first hits the throat, before mellowing into something smoother. 

Tyrion makes short work of the rest of his and pours himself another. “It will do nicely to get me drunk enough to manage the evening.” 

“Not so drunk you ask for the communion wafers that were Jesus' ass again though, right?” 

His brother shakes his head. “One time and you never let me forget it.” 

Jaime smirks. “I'm pretty sure the priest will never forget it, either.” He takes another swallow of the bourbon and exhales long and slow. “Brienne told me you ambushed her at the bar.” 

“'Ambushed'? I was visiting just like any customer.” 

“Can we just pretend that we've already done the witty back-and-forth and we're at the part where you tell me what really happened?” Jaime asks, tired already. 

“You're no fun any more.” Tyrion gets into their father's chair behind the oak desk and runs his fingers along the expensive wood. “I just told her what you wouldn't.” 

“I didn't know Selwyn's was on his list,” Jaime insists. 

“You would have if you'd ever read any of the emails. I've never understood how you had an incredible job thrown in your lap and you treated it with such utter disinterest.” With those words and Tyrion behind the desk, it feels exactly like talking to his father. 

“I never wanted that job.”

“Then why did you take it?” 

Jaime shoves his hand through his hair, but the fingers slide right through; he'd forgotten how much less of it he has now. “What else could I do? I had no useful skills, barely a degree.” 

“Exactly. All that and yet not even the tiniest grain of gratefulness.” Tyrion finishes his second drink and stretches across the desk to grab the bottle for a third. 

“I _was_ grateful, I just don't see how it's worth groveling at our father's feet for a job I hate. We both were doing each other a favor, and he was never grateful to me.” 

“Poor Jaime,” Tyrion mocks. “Given everything by our father except a few words of praise.”

“Fuck off,” Jaime says, slamming his glass down on the table. Over the rim of his own drink, Tyrion's eyes are glittering with bitter anger and hurt. Jaime knows where all this comes from, but he hates that they always end up here anyway, a track they can't seem to ever fully jump. “Why can't we just have a normal conversation?” 

“Because we're Lannisters,” Tyrion pronounces grandly. “And Lannisters are lions.” 

“Lannisters are assholes.” 

Tyrion inclines his head. “That, too.” 

“What else did you tell her? I know there's something else, but Brienne won't tell me, which means she thinks it'll hurt my relationship with you.” Jaime's certain that's true; he doesn't see any other reason she wouldn't be upfront about it. 

“So you think I'll tell you and ruin it myself?” Tyrion smirks; it feels like looking in the mirror. “I'm not sure whether to be flattered or not.” 

Jaime settles into one of the leather chairs facing the desk and tips his head back to stare at the wood-beamed ceiling. “Pick whichever one will convince you to tell me.” 

He hears Tyrion take another drink. “I warned her about what you were like when the music takes over your life.” 

Jaime lowers his head to glare at his brother. “What does that mean?”

“It means you're about to treat this woman like shit, and think it will all be okay because it's in service of your wonderful career.” Tyrion points at him. “You couldn't even bother to stay home after our mother died, to share our grief, because you were too busy publicly displaying it.” 

There is an old, coiled rage here, in both of them. “How many times do I have to tell you--” 

“The contract,” Tyrion declares, smacking his open palm on the desk. “The unbreakable piece of paper with which you signed away your soul. I'm aware of it, Jaime. The same one our father managed to break you out of.” 

“You were barely a toddler when our mother died, how do you even remember this? I had nothing but my music.” 

“You had _me_ ,” Tyrion says, his voice ragged. “I was old enough to remember crying in the middle of the night and only Cersei would come check on me. I would've been better off alone than her yelling at me to shut up.” 

“She was hurting, too.” Tyrion opens his mouth but Jaime barrels on. “It doesn't make it right, but it wasn't about you. It wasn't about any of us. And none of this has anything to do with Brienne.” Jaime's parched now; he finishes off his bourbon and breathes sharply through the burn. 

“It has everything to do with her.” Tyrion's face is pinched and twisted, all pretense of even mocking humor gone; his knuckles are white on his glass. “What are you going to do when she needs you, Jaime? When you've got a concert, a thousand people – ten thousand – eagerly awaiting your presence? Will you let all of them down to fly home and be there for one woman?” He sneers. “Or will you let an important date with her slip because of a PR stunt you can't back out of? Will you tour for months, then come home and spend all your time planning for the next record, the next hit, the next performance?” 

That hits entirely too close to this break, and Jaime stands abruptly, his body alive with resentful fury. “Brienne's incredibly capable, and she knows what to expect.”

“Does she?”

“Yes! We've talked about it multiple times. I won't let my career come between us. You asked what I'll do when she needs me? I'll be there for her. Even if I have to disappoint a hundred thousand fans to do it.” There's no question in Jaime's mind when he thinks of it, no hesitation or faint regret. The certainty is a solid rightness in his chest. 

Tyrion's studying him curiously. “You really believe that.” 

“Of course I do. My music will always be there, but if I don't take care of Brienne, she won't be.”

“Why don't you quit now, before you have to test that theory?” 

Jaime rubs at the two pendants under his shirt, feels the edges of their metal bite into the skin of his chest. “Because I already know it's true. And so does she. I'm gonna chase this dream down, and we both know what that will take. _If_ I have to make choices between them, I'll discuss that with _her_. Not my label, not my manager, and not you. I don't want you to discuss it with her, either. Just... leave her alone, Tyrion.” It's both a plea and an exhausted command. Jaime's never been good at fighting his family. They're all he's had for so long. 

“Of course,” Tyrion says. He pours himself a fourth glass and toasts Jaime. “Big brother knows best.”

* * *

Jaime is bone tired by the time they leave that night for Mass with their few packages all addressed to him alone – even his father's commemorative ornament, of which there were enough that everyone except Brienne got one, including little Tommen. She doesn't seem much better off than Jaime is. She's quiet on the drive to the church, her head tipped back against the headrest. So when the three cars ahead of them all turn right, Jaime just keeps going. 

“You missed the turn,” Brienne says. 

“I know.” 

She doesn't press the issue, just reaches over to squeeze his knee, and they sit quietly on the drive back to his apartment. 

It hadn't even been a terrible night, all things considered. Jaime had emerged from the study slightly tipsy and wondering if he should broach what they'd talked about with Brienne. He'd found her in the main room with Joy, the two of them tasting the appetizers and chatting lightly. It had done his heart good to see Brienne more relaxed, smiling a little, even if it was only with his niece. When he'd joined them, Joy had smirked in the familiar Lannister way. 

“Colt Thunder,” Joy had greeted him, and Brienne had bit down on her lip, her shoulders trembling with a restrained laugh. 

“Guilty as charged,” he'd said, sliding his arm around Brienne's waist. It had felt good to have her under his touch, to have her arm steady around his shoulders. 

“I wish I'd known sooner,” Joy had said. “I would have come watch you play. I've seen all your videos.” 

Her genuine enthusiasm and admiration had warmed his heart with the knowledge that _every_ Lannister wasn't set against him and his choices. 

The three of them had kept as much together as possible that night, with occasional, welcome intrusions from Tommen and Myrcella, and unwelcome ones from the rest of the Lannister clan. Though Dorna had been decent enough, and Cleos had been harmless if bumbling. 

Jaime's father had kept his distance, but Jaime had caught his gaze sliding their way more than once that evening. 

Underneath it all, Jaime had been more aware than ever of his family's relentless need for competition, for proving themselves better by shoving other people down. Brienne had held her own, but he'd seen the cracks in her careful facade as the evening had worn on. Jaime's never understood why he always feels so drained coming home from seeing his family, because he's always thought he was one of them. The petty fighting, the snarky asides – Jaime's always excelled at those. But he realizes now that they'd taken a small piece of his soul every time. It's taken Brienne to clear his vision enough to see how far apart he's always been from his family. 

Jaime tosses his keys on the entry table when they enter his apartment, sets the presents on the ground and sighs in relief. There'd been one call from his brother, which Jaime hadn't answered, and no other messages. Another year Jaime might be annoyed, but tonight he wants the space from them. 

“I'm sorry about all that,” he tells Brienne. She's slipped off her low boots and is stretching, her dress riding up her thighs. 

“None of that was your fault,” she says firmly. Brienne reaches for him and he willingly goes, melts into her solid embrace. “You're not your family.” 

“I can't tell you what a relief it is to hear that.” 

Her small chuckle is warm on the skin of his neck. “Yeah. They seem... difficult to be around. Are they always like that?” 

“Sometimes they're worse.”

“God.” She kisses his jaw and then pulls back to look into his eyes. Hers are concerned, the blue dark with compassion. “I'm sorry you had to grow up like that.” 

He kisses her hard, because words are never enough to tell her everything he feels when she looks at him like he's someone worth worrying about. _Don't ever leave me_ , he wants to beg, but the best way to ensure that is to make sure she knows how wrong Tyrion is. 

“Keep in mind how terrible they are when they talk to you,” he says, squeezing her waist gently. Brienne's playing with the buttons of his shirt, but her fingers go still. 

“What did Tyrion say?” she asks. 

“That he doesn't have any idea how much I love you.” Jaime cups her face in his hands. “Don't ever doubt that you're more important than any of this.” 

“Jaime,” she says quietly, and he can feel her face heating under his palms. “We've haven't even been dating six months. I can't expect that.” 

It hits him with the force of a bucketful of ice water that she may not feel the same in return – that her feelings are true, but less intense. That if she were ever forced to choose between him and the bar, he might lose. A cold drip of worry trickles down his spine. Even if he counts the months he'd been attracted to her and hadn't known what he wanted, it still doesn't add up to a year of knowing each other, yet here he is, ready to give up everything if she demands it. He can't expect the same of her, no matter how much he wants her to expect it of him. 

She twists her fingers into his open collar. “What are you thinking about?” Her voice is soft, but intent, her gaze searching. Surely she can see him, see every fear and dream beating like a pulse under his flimsy skin. He's certain of Brienne's love; that alone should fulfill even _his_ depthless need. 

“I'm thinking about how amazing you are,” he tells her, and it's true enough that when he trails his hands back down her sides and rucks up her dress to tuck his hands in the waistband of her tights, she doesn't protest. Jaime rubs his thumbs along the soft skin of her stomach and goosebumps rise under his touch. They kiss – tender, careful. _We have this_ , he thinks. _This is enough._

He must have given himself away, though, because when he pulls back she's still looking at him with her brows furrowed in concern. “You're sure that's it?” 

“That, and also that Santa is going to find us in a very compromising position if we don't move this to the bedroom soon,” he says lightly. 

Her lips curve into a smile, but he can tell she's not quite buying it. He kisses her more deeply, and he's certain she can hear all his needy anxiety when she runs her hands soothingly down his arms. But she doesn't protest, or ask him any more questions, she just leads him back to his bedroom and lets him tell her everything without saying a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What I generally based Tywin's house on, in case you're interested: https://www.granthammond.com/idx/mls-2139789-1358_page_rd_nashville_tn_37205


	26. You reach out for me babe, I'll reach out for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne wakes up Christmas morning with the world's best present in her arms, and his shockingly heavy dog sprawled across her feet.

Brienne wakes up Christmas morning with the world's best present in her arms, and his shockingly heavy dog sprawled across her feet. She presses a soft kiss between Jaime's shoulder blades and attempts her escape from the tangle of sheets and man and hound. With minimal fuss she manages it, although both Jaime and Belle make very similar-sounding groans that almost ruin everything when Brienne has to choke back a laugh. 

She rifles through her bag and pulls on Christmas pajamas, leaves out the matching pairs she'd bought on a whim for Jaime and Belle, and goes to the kitchen to get coffee and breakfast started. 

The motions are familiar – she knows exactly which cupboard has his favorite mug with the musical notes, where the pan is to fry up the bacon, the fancy coffee they'd bought earlier that week when Jaime had complained about all the instant he'd been forced to drink on tour. The soothing, casual routine of it is a marked contrast to the tense formality of the previous night at the Lannister dinner. Even once they'd come home, Jaime had been jumpy as a live wire, had kissed and made love like he'd been afraid she'd leave him in the middle of it. Brienne isn't sure what had spurred all that, but she guesses it had to do with his conversation with Tyrion in part, and their long night with his family for the rest. 

She doesn't like to think ill of other people's kin, but the Lannisters had been, mostly, unwelcoming and brittle in their smiles and their speech. Brienne had felt like she was being passed around like a disappointing 4-H calf, clucked over and found wanting. And it hadn't even come out of any concern for Jaime, but for some strange protectiveness of the Lannister name.

Not that the Lannister name is any of Brienne's business. She and Jaime are only dating, no matter how much they've already wound around each other's lives. No matter how much the simple act of making breakfast, the pleased, sleepy smile he'll give her when he wakes up, settles her heart with a steady, profound rhythm. Brienne's never thought of herself as especially domestic, but she enjoys these quiet moments of caring for him. If the proud delight on Jaime's face had been any sign when he'd brought her an apple at work a few days ago, he feels the same about taking care of her. 

One more week and then he'll be on tour again, where even a brief conversation and a handful of eager kisses in the back room at the bar won't be possible. There is a small, shadowy part of her heart that's been urging her to do as Tyrion had suggested: to give in to fear and selfishness and try to clutch Jaime close and hold on tight. But his music is part of what she loves, as much as his roaming hands and ridiculous sense of humor. Brienne will never ask him to give it up, no matter how loud her worries get. 

She sighs down at the bacon sizzling and spitting in the pan, and hears the scrabble of Belle's feet on the floor, announcing they're awake. Jaime's low laugh floats down the hall and then she hears the rumble of his voice a moment after, though she can't make out the words. There's more movement – more laughter – and a few minutes later, man and dog appear and Brienne's heart seizes, overwhelmed at the sight of them. Jaime's put on the pajamas – red and black plaid pants and a long-sleeved white shirt with a goofy looking reindeer on the front, a match to hers – and he's put Belle's on her, too. The dog has a plaid bandana tied jauntily around her neck and a white shirt covering her torso, and her tail is wagging wildly. Jaime's new haircut is even more devastating tousled with sleep, the firm lines of his jaw softened just enough with the slight additional shadow of beard. His eyes are crinkled at the edges from his happy smile, a little bit of the boy he's held onto all these years peering out. 

All her insistence that they're _only dating_ suddenly feels as absurd as it actually is; Brienne knows she would give him anything he asked of her in this moment. Even the bar. Her trust that he wouldn't ask is the only thing that keeps her rooted in place. 

Her hand tightens on the tongs and she gestures at Belle with them, trying to find some levity to cling to in the heavy pounding of her heart. 

“Did she give you any trouble?” 

Jaime scratches Belle's head. “Shockingly no. Well – excessive licking, but that's a normal side-effect.” 

“Don't I know it,” Brienne says, forcing a grin.

“What do you think?” he asks, spinning in a quick circle with his hands held out to the side. 

“Very debonair.” He makes it easy to breathe through her fear, to believe that this – the two of them and Belle, nowhere to go and nothing to be beholden to – isn't simply a delicate bubble that can't last. “Merry Christmas,” she says softly, letting the illusion play out. 

Jaime comes into the kitchen, kisses her sweet and slow as syrup. “Merry Christmas, darlin'. Is that my present?” he asks, pointing at the bacon. “Because if so: best gift ever.” 

Brienne huffs a slight laugh and nudges him back out of the way so she can take care of the food. “No, I got you an actual present in a box, but I left it at my house. I figured you can open it after dinner. Can you still stay overnight?” 

“Wild reindeer couldn't drag me away,” he promises. He plucks at his shirt. “Thank you for the pajamas. I've never had Christmas PJs before.”

“What, really?” The tongs clank on the counter in her shock. “ _Never?_ ”

“Unless it happened when I was too young to remember it. I've also never matched with Belle before and a whole new world is opening up to me.” He goes to get his shoes on and leash Belle. “Matching raincoats, matching beach wear, matching snow boots.” 

“I've created a monster,” she drawls and Jaime winks at her. 

“You just finish up breakfast while I take Belle out so the neighbors can see how dashing we look.” 

“Oh, god, Jaime, you don't have to wear your pajamas outside!” She shouts the last after him but he's already out the door, Belle bounding along at his side. 

_So easy_ , she thinks again. Easy enough to be tempted to give up everything – or to give in and try and make him stay. Anything to hold on to their fragile, iridescent cocoon as long as she can.

* * *

Jaime shifts nervously in the seat of Brienne's truck as she parks in front of her father's house. It's cold out and as soon as she shuts the engine off and the heater goes quiet, she swears she can feel winter slipping in through the cracks. Jaime seems more preoccupied with examining every inch of her modest childhood home, with its lights cheerfully hung along the edge of the roof. There's a huge blow-up Santa Claus, and Brienne has to laugh because her father's put the Thanksgiving turkey out there, too. Apparently her mini-rant at him about not wasting money had been inspiring. 

With the Lannister mansion still fresh in her mind from last night, Brienne's a little ashamed at the peeling paint and the dirty gutters, but it's almost dark now and details like that are hard to see in the red-blue-green-yellow of the lights. There's no way Jaime's expecting a massive estate anyway; they've talked too frequently about her childhood and her family's financial difficulties for that. So she squeezes his hand and they climb out of the truck, slamming their doors in near-perfect time. 

Brienne knocks on the front door to announce their arrival before letting herself in, the same as she's done thousands of times in her life. 

“We're here, Daddy! Merry Christmas!” she calls out over the sounds of Merle Haggard's Christmas album. 

“Be right there, Angel!” he calls back from down the hall and she gestures for Jaime to go into the living room with the presents they brought for her father and Galladon, shutting the door behind them. It smells amazing from the meal her father's been working at all day, and they both pause to sniff the air deeply. 

“Whatever we're having for dinner smells delicious,” Jaime says. 

“It's a huge spread. He'll send us home with half of it as leftovers.” 

“I can't wait.” Jaime cocks his head to the side to listen. “Is that Merle?” 

Brienne groans. “Yes. My dad listens to it at least once a day as soon as Thanksgiving is done.” 

“I take it you're not a fan of 'Daddy Won't Be Home Again For Christmas'?” 

“No! It's upsetting!” She takes the gifts and tucks them under the slightly lopsided tree with the few others there, sets the two expensive bottles of wine they'd brought on the coffee table. “No child wants to hear that every day for a month.” Jaime's staring at her like she's the most adorable thing he's ever seen. Brienne never knows what to do with it, how she's earned it when she's taller and broader and more awkward than he is, but it makes her feel cherished so she kisses him quickly and tugs him down to the old couch with her. 

“Why, Barkeep, surely we're not gonna make out on your daddy's couch on Christmas are we?” he whispers in her ear and she shivers a little. 

“We are not, you horny heathen.” 

Jaime bursts into loud laughter just as her father walks into the room, smiling gamely. “Merry Christmas, kids! What's the joke?” 

That just makes Jaime laugh harder and Brienne drops her head into her hands. 

“I see,” her dad says, and somehow that makes it worse. She's saved by another knock on the door and Galladon announcing his arrival. 

“We're in the living room!” her father shouts back, his deep voice a booming drum in the small space. She wonders what he'd sound like in the perfect acoustics of Tywin's entryway. 

Jaime's at least gotten himself back under control by the time Galladon steps into the living room, and they both rise to greet her brother. He shakes Jaime's hand first with a polite smile, and then pulls Brienne in for a hug. 

“Getting pretty serious with Colt,” he whispers into her ear and she pinches him under his jacket. 

“Be nice,” she whispers back. 

Gal grins at her before he's wrapped up by their father with a small “oof.” 

“It's good to see you,” Selwyn says, his voice thick with unshed tears. 

“You, too, Dad,” Gal manages, patting his back soundly. They break apart and their father is beaming, his eyes shining. “Come on, now, it's only been a few months since I last saw you.” Home for only a minute and Galladon's accent is already more pronounced. She wonders if he does it on purpose. 

“It's just nice to have everybody here.” Selwyn clears his throat and gestures for everyone to sit again. “Food needs another half hour or so and then we can eat.” 

“How far overboard did you go this year?” Gal asks wryly. 

“Keep in mind we do have extra company today,” Selwyn starts, and Brienne snorts. Loudly. 

“ _One_ extra person,” she points out. 

Jaime pats his stomach. “I can happily eat for three though,” he says and Selwyn laughs appreciatively.

“See? We can't have our guest going hungry, Angel, you know that,” her dad says with a pointed look.

Jaime slips his hand in hers with an easy familiarity that Brienne wouldn't even notice, except for the way it draws her brother's and her father's gazes directly to them. They both look pleased, though Gal's expression has a mischievous slant that she knows she's going to hear more about. 

He doesn't even wait until they're alone. “So, Colt,” Gal starts, and Jaime's fingers tighten around her hand. 

“Jaime,” he says with a light smile. “I don't use the stage name any longer, as I'm sure you know.”

“Of course. Brienne says you've got a record deal now.” 

“I do.” Jaime rubs his thumb over her knuckles, and she's not sure if it's to soothe her or himself. 

“Sounds exciting. When can we expect to get your first album?” 

“Petyr's aiming for early next year. Late January, even.” 

Her father frowns. “That seems awfully quick.” 

“Trying to strike while the iron is hot,” Jaime says with a casual shrug. Brienne and Jaime have talked about it already at length, especially as Jaime's been recording over the last week, and come to that conclusion. She knows Jaime's been chafing under some of the changes Petyr's suggesting, but none of them are because of the hurry, so it seems unlikely he's just trying to rush Jaime through his contract. Besides, the sooner Jaime gets this first album done, the sooner he can focus on making more of the music he wants for the second. Brienne knows compromises have to happen, as much as she hates the weight of them that she sees bearing down on Jaime's back. But he wants this, and she doesn't trust herself enough not to wonder if some of her concern is just looking for any loophole to tie him here a little longer. 

They open the first bottle of wine and Jaime regales them with tales from the tour, the air turning light with laughter and her father's and brother's genuine interest and appreciation. Jaime's practice at his between-song banter pays off in situations like this, and her heart glows watching him telling stories to her family here in her childhood home. He's wearing a white, thick-knit sweater and the necklaces he'd fought for, and it's even better having him here than she'd imagined. 

She wishes she had a time machine and could bring ten-year-old Brienne forward just for the night to see what awaits her. Knowing her younger self, the girl would struggle to believe it, but it's hard to argue with the reality of Jaime here in the space next to her, the way his knee presses against hers, the way his elbow sometimes bumps gently into her arm as he gestures with enthusiasm. He takes up a lot of space, just like she does; a solid, steady reminder that he's here. 

When her dad excuses himself to go finish dinner, Jaime offers to help, and Selwyn eagerly escorts him back. Brienne's a little concerned about what her father's going to talk to Jaime about while they're alone in the kitchen, but Gal doesn't give her time to worry over that too much, because he leans forward in the armchair, elbows on his knees, and asks, “So, when are you two getting married?” 

Brienne coughs, choking on her wine. “Jesus, Gal, the position of Overbearing Father has already been filled.” 

“I'm just saying, you two seem awfully tight. Plus there's the whole childhood idol angle, and that dopey smile on your face when you look at him.” She chucks a throw pillow at him and he bats it away. “Don't get violent, you know I'm right.” 

“First of all, it's rude to ask anyone that, and second of all, we only started dating in July. You're jumping the gun.”

“Mm.” Gal picks up the pillow and throws it back; she catches it easily and doesn't spill a drop of her drink. “I'm glad you're being your usual sensible self about this, Bri-bee.” He sounds like he means that and she narrows her eyes at him, setting her glass on the table.

“Why wouldn't I be?” 

“He's very pretty. That shiny hair, those intense eyes. That jawline.” 

She gives her brother a dry look. “Sounds like you're jealous you're not dating him.” 

“I'm straight, not blind. And I'm also your brother, which means I know you.” 

The music dips to silence and then the next song starts, the cheerful twang of guitar plinking through the house. “What exactly do you know about me?” 

Gal leans back in the chair again and shrugs a little. “That you've never brought anyone to Christmas before.” 

“Neither have you,” she reminds him. 

“Exactly. This isn't a small deal. Meeting the family.” 

Brienne rolls her shoulders, like she can shrug off his meaning. “He's met both of you before already. Besides, he took me to his family's dinner yesterday.”

“Really?” Galladon raises his brows and makes another thoughtful hum that annoys her. “Very interesting.”

“No, it's not,” she snaps. 

“All right, touchy, calm down.” 

Brienne folds her arms over her chest and sinks back into the old couch cushions. She doesn't understand why her brother is making a big deal out of this; she can't imagine _not_ having invited Jaime to Christmas Day. 

Which is, perhaps, exactly what Gal is getting at. 

“Why haven't you ever invited a girlfriend to Christmas?” she cautiously asks her brother. She doesn't want to open herself up to further brotherly poking on the subject, but it's not like Brienne's ever had more than Hyle as a relationship serious enough to even consider bringing him, and that had never once crossed her mind. 

“There's no one I've dated that I thought doing so was worth the risk.” 

“The risk of what? Trust me, after a meal with the Lannisters, we're like fluffy bunnies.” 

Gal smirks a little, but he swiftly turns serious, his usual joviality unable to hang on. “The risk of knowing this part of me, I guess.”

“Why are you so ashamed of us?” she quietly asks, and Gal shakes his head; she can see his frustration in the muscle that clenches in his jaw. 

“I'm not ashamed. It's...” His eyes rove the space, like he's looking for the answer in the Christmas decorations and decades of knickknacks, before settling on her again. Galladon has always been quicker with a joke and smile; he's got neither now. “It's that seeing a person with their family, learning their traditions – that's _commitment_ shit, Brienne. That's Dad asking me ten times a phone call how my girlfriend's doing and inviting her to every stupid picnic he arranges. It's my girlfriend meeting you, and me spending the entire time nervous, hoping the two of you hit it off. It's the expectation that she'll come for future holidays, too. You don't just invite someone _once_ for Christmas.” Gal looks at her expectantly for her response, and Brienne nods in slow agreement. “I just want to be sure you understand that. That Jaime understands it, too.”

Gal's right, and it surprises her that he's so perceptive, though it shouldn't. Galladon may have run at the first available opportunity, but that doesn't mean he doesn't understand what he left behind, what it means to come back.

“Well... we haven't talked about marriage,” she says and Gal smiles a little. 

“Not yet.” 

Brienne looks at the archway that leads to the kitchen. She can hear her father and Jaime's voices low on the air; whatever they're talking about, it sounds pleasant enough. She hopes it's not a conversation like this. She and Jaime have enough to worry about with their lives as it is; they don't need to start talking about _forever_ on top of it. 

There's nothing casual about Brienne's feelings for Jaime – and it's impossible to miss Jaime's single-minded intensity towards her – but there are too many unknowns, too many shadows like the bar and his fledgling career and his own family darkening their door to spend time thinking about marriage. Maybe next Christmas – if they're still together, if she invites him again. If her bar and his music haven't driven them apart. 

“Don't get lost in that head of yours,” Galladon says, nudging her foot with his. “It was just a dumb question.” 

“Yeah,” she says, blinking, focusing on him. “It's what I'd expect from my dumb brother.” 

Gal laughs and Jaime pokes his head back into the room. Brienne's heart does a pathetic leap at the bright smile he gives her. 

“Dinner's ready, y'all,” Jaime says. “Wash up and come to the table.” 

“He sounds like mom.” Gal stands and offers Brienne a hand up. She takes it and he pulls her up easily. “That's a good sign, in case you're wondering.” 

She flushes a little and pokes Gal in the stomach. “Last one to the table has to do the dishes,” she says and yelps in shock when Gal shoves her back down to the couch and races for the sink.

* * *

The rest of the evening is much less fraught than her conversation with her brother had been, though it hovers at the back of Brienne's mind for most of dinner. She can't help watching the way Jaime interacts with her family, how quickly they both accept him, how easily he inserts himself. Jaime's got different levels of charm, she's learned – from polite and professional to the sexy flirtation he uses with her – but this feels like something new again. There's something homey to it, deferential and sweet. 

The bar is the elephant in the room, as it always is when Galladon comes home. They talk about it, some – she gets Galladon to explain the plan again to their dad, and she's a little gratified that Selwyn looks exactly as confused by it as he had when she'd done the same. But they don't discuss the bar much beyond that. It doesn't feel quite as painful this time, though. Brienne suspects that's because of Gal helping in his own way to save it, even if he's being paid to do so. 

After too much dinner and far too much dessert – “ _Four_ pies? Did you expect each of us to eat a whole one?” she'd demanded of her father – they're back in the living room. Both the wine and Merle are long-gone and it's coffee and The Carpenters now, soothing and quiet. 

“Time for presents!” her dad announces, clapping his hands. Like an enthusiastic Santa, he makes the three of them sit down and hands out their gifts. There are two small packages left under the tree and he grins sheepishly. “Those are Belle's,” he explains. 

“I'll make sure she gets them,” Jaime promises with a smile. He gestures at his own two gifts. “I didn't expect anything, for either of us.” 

“Don't be silly, of course you get a present. I just hope you like it!” 

“I ran mine by Brienne just in case,” Gal admits. “But the idea was mine.” 

Brienne rolls her eyes and glances at Jaime with a smile, but she finds him staring doggedly down at the neatly-wrapped packages in his lap. She can see the pulse in his temple from the tense way he's holding his jaw, and Brienne reaches over to squeeze his hand. Jaime meets her eyes; she's relieved to see that he's not annoyed, just overwhelmed. She thinks about the tucked-away, photoshoot-ready packages at Tywin's house. The way Jaime had barely even thought about what to get anyone except the kids. He clears his throat and offers a small, unsteady smile. 

It takes all her willpower not to drag him closer and kiss that nervousness, the disbelief, away. He burns with the life and heat of a bonfire; sometimes she forgets the tender kindling at the center of his soul. Brienne brings his hand up and kisses it, ignoring her father and brother's studiously averted attention. 

_You okay?_ she mouths. Jaime nods, squeezes her hand in return. 

“Well,” Selwyn says, clearing his throat. “They're wrapped pretty, but let's get these open.” They do, everyone unwrapping together, and the mood shifts back to cheerful again as they chatter at each other in happy chaos. Her brother has gotten Jaime a travel-sized coffee maker with a bag of the coffee Jaime likes, and he grins so wide Brienne feels her own smile stretch across her face. Her father's gift to Jaime is a massaging neck pillow. 

“I figure it can't be comfortable being in the van all those hours,” he explains, and Jaime thanks him with sincere delight. The rest of the presents are fairly standard – a new shirt and movie tickets for her dad, a tie and a gift certificate to the cafe with the manager Gal likes for her brother. Brienne receives a new skillet and a home improvement store gift card, which she clutches gratefully to her chest. 

They leave shortly after, and this time both Selwyn and Gal hug Jaime instead of shaking his hand. Her dad sends them off loaded down with Tupperware full of leftovers, as well as Belle's two presents, and promises of lunch whenever Jaime's back in town. It only strikes Brienne as she's driving home that Jaime's presents were for going away, and hers were for staying behind.

* * *

When they get back to Brienne's house, Belle greets them excitedly, and after taking her out, they open her two gifts to find a juicy-looking bone and a bag of Christmas-themed dog cookies. Jaime sends her off with the bone, which she takes into the kitchen to chew under the table. 

“I hope that wasn't too awkward,” Brienne says as she's trying to Tetris the leftovers in her refrigerator. 

“It was great,” Jaime assures her. He's examining the gifts he got. “I feel like I should have brought more than the wine, though. You could have told me Galladon was getting me a present.” 

She looks over her shoulder. “We went in together on the tie. I would have gone with that cheaper paisley thing.” 

“I should have offloaded some of mine on him. Maybe I'll do that before I leave,” he muses thoughtfully, and Brienne turns back to the fridge, her heart heavy. Now that Christmas is nearly over, the focus is back on when Jaime will be gone again: the day after New Year's. On an even longer tour to capitalize on the new record release. Jon is feeling better and has volunteered to cover more shifts than usual this week so she can have more time with Jaime, but it's not enough. She's too greedy by half to think two weeks in eight months will ever be enough. 

Brienne shoos him out to the living room to sit on the couch and listen to the music she's put on while she finishes, and afterward she finds him there with his head tipped back, eyes closed. The necklace chains glimmer against his bared throat. Brienne hadn't been prepared for Jaime's new look, the way the careful sculpting of his hair and stubble had managed to make him even more attractive. But he also looks more misplaced now, here in her unfinished home, like a fine art painting hung in a seedy bar. Everything around it – around him – is suddenly more dreary and unappealing. 

He opens his eyes and smiles warmly as she stands there staring. “Hey. All done?” 

“Yeah.” She tracks down the line of his arms, his slightly spread legs, and back again. She wants to curl into his chest and not let him go. “I got a present for you, too.” 

Jaime lifts his brows. “Besides the bacon?” 

“What is it with you and the bacon?” she asks, laughing a little in spite of the storm gathering in her ribcage. “It's under the tree.” 

“I got you a present, too,” he says. “It's in my truck. Give me a minute.” They'd driven down separately, because he's got an early morning meeting the day after next and she has a shift at the bar that Jon couldn't take. They haven't quite talked about where Belle will be, but Brienne suspects she'll end up taking care of her. She loves Belle, loves having her around – had missed her last week when she'd been at Jaime's – but it's just another sign of the preparations Jaime's already making to leave. 

They settle back on the couch with their gifts, Belle curled in the armchair still working on her bone. “You first,” Jaime indicates. Brienne quickly unwraps her present and pulls out a t-shirt, bursting into pealing laughter as it unfolds. 

“I can never wear this in public.” Brienne holds it up to her chest, shaking her head. _Save a horse, ride a cowboy_ it says, with a picture of a bare-chested, overly muscular cowboy and two wild mustangs running to either side of him. 

“I thought about getting it with my face superimposed but that seemed like a step too far.” 

Brienne laughs again and covers her own face with the shirt. “Yes, your face is the step too far.” 

Jaime tugs the shirt down and she peers at him, knowing he can see the smile she's hiding in her eyes. He grins back. “Wear it under your flannel, no one will know but you and me.” 

“That's convenient, since you won't be here.” His smile slips and hers does, too. Brienne neatly folds the shirt and sets it back in the small box, discovers a smaller box hiding in the tissue paper. When she glances up at Jaime, he's got a nervous look on his face. 

She thinks about her conversation with Gal. The box isn't obviously a ring box, but her heart starts pounding anyway. When she opens it, she stares in shock at the vaguely comma-shaped purple silicone item sitting there. 

“It's a remote-controlled vibrator,” Jaime explains, shifting a little closer. “I thought... since I'll be gone for a while, this might be a good way to keep us connected. That it might help you think about me as much as I think about you.” His voice is so gentle, so sincere, as he says it, that she strokes his knee. “I'm worried you might get tired of me if all we have is phone sex.” 

Brienne can't think at first around the relief and disappointment clamoring in her head. Neither of them is ready for forever, but she feels the absence of what could have been nonetheless. When she looks up at him, she notices the nerves and vulnerability all over his features, undercutting his casual tone, and she kisses him. It's easier to focus on his fears than her own. She presses her forehead to his and breathes him in. 

“I could never get tired of you,” she promises. 

“I know this isn't really an appropriate gift--”

“It's perfect. It's for us, and that's...” Brienne rubs her temple against his. “That's all I want. Besides,” she pulls back and points at the gift on his knee. “It makes me feel better about my present, too.” 

Jaime's eyebrows lift and he starts ripping at the packaging. Brienne had thought a long time about what to get him for Christmas, had talked it out a little with Ellaria – and turned down some of her wilder suggestions. She just hopes what she'd settled on isn't too little, or too dumb. 

He opens it and takes out the notebook she'd gotten him, reading the cover with a smile that starts out a little confused and swiftly turns delighted. When he flips through the pages, he laughs. At the top of each page is a different long word and the definition. 

“I figured your calendar was almost out, since it's the end of the year,” she says, and Jaime shakes his head, still chuckling. 

“This is only going to exacerbate my loquaciousness,” he drawls and she shoves him lightly on the shoulder. 

“Don't make me take your present away.” 

Jaime hides it behind his back. “You'll have to wrestle me for it.” He waggles his eyebrows. 

“Maybe _after_ you look at what's in the back.” 

He pulls the notebook out and flips to the back, pulling out the wallet-sized photo she'd had printed up and tucked away there, and he inhales sharply. This had been Ellaria's suggestion, one Brienne had needed her help with. It's a photo of Brienne leaning back on her elbows on her bed, wearing only Jaime's shirt. There's nothing indecent showing, except maybe for her bare legs, or the line of too-pale chest, but Jaime's eyes are green fire when he looks up from the photo to her. The afternoon taking the picture had been first embarrassing and then fun as Ellaria had soothed and teased Brienne into being comfortable, but it's only now that she sees the way Jaime licks his lips that she truly believes Ellaria's assurances that this would be the perfect long-distance gift. 

Jaime tucks the photo carefully into the notebook and then chucks it aside, shoving her box off her lap, too, as he captures her mouth in a passionate kiss. 

“So you like it?” she can't help but ask, and he slides his tongue against hers in response, his hands working at her shirt. Brienne rubs hers under his sweater, her palms capturing the burn of his skin. 

“It's perfect,” he murmurs against her lips. “Though I hope you have copies. I might wreck this one from looking at it too much.” 

She shuts her eyes and he kisses her nose and then stands, tugging her up with him. “But I want to look at you first, while we're both here.” Brienne rises and he wraps her in his arms, keeping her there. “Merry Christmas,” he murmurs. 

There are a hundred helpless promises on her tongue, things she can't do, others she can never request. The edges of their time together are starting to fray apart. She holds on tight and whispers, “Merry Christmas, Jaime.” 

And though she can feel his need in the shift of muscle, in her own fluttering belly, they stand in her living room embracing each other for a long time.


	27. Kiss me when I'm down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I just wish...” When he exhales, the air blows humid across her neck. Brienne stays quiet, giving him space to say what he needs. “I wish everything wasn't a fight,” he finally says. His voice is quiet, and tired. “That I didn't have to be on my guard every second.” 
> 
> She hums softly, and presses her lips to the jut of his jaw. She can't help him with Petyr except by being there, but maybe she can find some other way to ease the tension she feels in his temple pressed to hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a minor content note regarding a sex scene for this chapter that I've included at the end notes in case you want to know going in. It's truly not anything dramatic or serious -- everybody is consenting, it's not unhappy, it's just Jaime & Brienne -- but I like to provide full disclosure for people who want it.

“All right, Jaime, let's try another take,” Lothor, the sound engineer, says before flicking off the intercom and glancing at Brienne sitting in the booth with him. “You're making your boyfriend nervous.” 

She feels her cheeks heat, but she doesn't say anything, just watches Jaime run his hands through his short hair and glare at the mic. Brienne's lost track of what attempt this is on the last song of his new album, but they seem to be getting worse, not better. The band had laid down the instrumentation earlier that day, called in by Petyr for the last-minute addition. Brienne had been with Jaime that morning when he'd gotten the same call. 

“I don't have any other songs,” she'd heard him tell Petyr over the phone. She hadn't been able to hear Petyr's response, but Jaime had been tense ever since. 

Brienne had been excited for the chance to go with him – she'd missed all of his recording sessions the week before – and when they'd first stepped into the studio she'd been giddy. Ten years old again, but this time her musical crush had been holding her hand. 

Her excitement has since dimmed, watching Jaime fight with the song. Though Brienne's fairly certain why he's struggling. 

In the sound booth, Jaime takes a deep breath and then nods at them to start, and the tune kicks in again. It's simple, but catchy enough, and she bobs her head a little, the same as she's done every other time. When Jaime steps towards the microphone and starts to sing, she still feels the same shooting thrill at watching him perform. It's been months since he'd played in person for her last, and she's forgotten how compelling he is singing live, even in a lushly decorated studio. 

The song, however, is a mess. Brienne recognizes the problems almost immediately, starting with the content. It sounds like every cliché bro-country nonsense she's ever heard on the radio, a Frankenstein's monster of a song, lyrics pulled together from a random database to form a tune about being country, being American, being drunk, and being proud of all of it. Jaime's got plenty of songs about having a good time, but the common thread of them is the humanity of needing release in a world ready to hold people down at every moment. This song stakes its claim on ownership of partying as some sort of unalienable right, but only if you meet a certain set of criteria. It also lacks Jaime's natural poeticism, and the chorus has far too many “yeahs” for anyone's sanity. 

Jaime does his best with it, but the sneer he's wearing on this run-through is clearly evident in the recording and Lothor stops him halfway through with a huff. 

“Take five,” he snaps and shoves back from the desk, disappearing back into the hallway. Jaime slams the headphones on the hanger and stalks out of the booth. 

Before he can say anything, Brienne takes him by the hand and drags him out of the building into the cold, late evening air. 

“I didn't bring my jacket,” Jaime grumbles, and she rolls her eyes but wraps her arms around him and holds him tight, feels all the aggravation of the day in every part of his tense body. “Stop being so nice to me.”

“Be quiet and just take a few deep breaths, will you?” she tells him calmly, and he snorts, but it sounds more amused than annoyed, and his shoulders drift down when he exhales, his breath hot on her neck. 

Brienne's also regretting not bringing a jacket, but at least they've got the shared body heat for a few minutes. Once he's slightly more pliant in her arms, she says, “It's not a good song.” 

“I know that,” he says irritably. 

“Why are you putting it on your album?”

Jaime shakes his head. “The track list was done last week but Petyr insists we need something more _radio friendly_.” Brienne runs her palms over Jaime's back, feels the muscles tightening again as he talks. 

“You should talk to him. You're never gonna be able to sing this with a straight face.” Jaime hums noncommittally and shakes his head again. 

“It's a terrible song,” he says. 

Brienne tries to find something good about it, but there's not much. “Petyr signed you because he likes your sound, _your_ music. Tell him this isn't you.” 

Jaime pulls back to meet her eyes. “None of this is me. This outfit, the hair. You should've seen the photoshoot they made me do yesterday. This song? Is for that man, not me.” His unhappiness is as sharp as the winter wind tugging at her hair. “But Petyr was very quick to remind me that this first album isn't solely mine, and that he wants this song on it. I bought more control of my next album by giving him more control of this one. I don't have a lot of leg to stand on here.” 

“What are you gonna do, then?” she asks. 

“I could fight it. I'd probably win, mostly because he can't force me to sing. But it might be considered breach of contract. Or at least enough of one that a court would look at my past and decide it was.” He pulls her back into his arms, pressing his cold nose to her neck, and she shivers. “So I find some way to sing this awful fucking song.”

“What about the tour? If it's supposed to be the radio hit, he'll want you to sing it every night.” 

“Then I'll have to get real forgetful all of a sudden. Make up a few new lyrics.” Jaime kisses her neck and she sighs. 

“This doesn't feel right.” 

“I can't win every single fight. I can't even fight them all. What else am I supposed to do?” he asks, pulling out of her arms. The cold buffets her front. 

“You always assume no one will take your side, but saying no to one song--”

“Is being a difficult artist. Everyone is waiting to say that about me at the slightest provocation but I'm not going to give them the chance.” His tone slices with its bitter edge, and Brienne folds her arms over her chest and glares at him. 

“You have thousands of fans who adore you.” _You have me_ , she wants to add, but doesn't. “Who cares what the media says?” 

Jaime tangles his fingers in his short curls and then gives a noisy, frustrated growl. “When my father cut me loose the first time, the media spotlight was intense. I know you heard about it – how I was squandering opportunity, how I was spoiled and irresponsible. Reporters would find me and shout terrible things. One time...” He looks up at the sky and swallows hard. “There was this one guy, from some backyard music publication, I think, and he asked me, 'What do you think your mother would say if she were here?'” 

Brienne gasps and covers her mouth, grabs his forearm with her other hand. He's like stone under her fingers. “Jaime, that's awful.” 

“It was. If he asked me that now I'd probably punch him in the mouth. But even that wouldn't be entirely fair, because I ask myself the same thing.” Jaime looks back at her, and she can see all the years he's carried that weight with him. “Petyr showed me the notes his mentor had taken when he'd met with my mother years ago. It would have been a very similar contract. She wanted the best for me, but she was a realist, too. She understood some things had to bend.” He smiles, and it's so resigned that Brienne's heart hurts. “What would my mother say, if she were here? She'd say I made an agreement, and I should stick to it. That I may not like all of it, but if I want this, then I need to do the work. So I'll do the work, Brienne. What other choice do I have?”

The only answer she has is for him to rip up the contract and keep playing locally, and that she can never suggest. Instead, Brienne shrugs a little, and Jaime turns his arm in her grip, moves to take her hand. 

“One song. I can sing one song,” he says with conviction.

Brienne only nods and lets him lead her inside. After a quick discussion with Lothor, Jaime's back in the sound booth, headphones on, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. He winks at her, and she tries to smile, but her mouth feels frozen in its worried line. 

He nails it on the first try, sounding exactly like the man Petyr wants him to be.

* * *

They're at Brienne's the day before New Year's Eve so she can do her laundry and Jaime can help her fold while being a pest – “Maybe I should steal a pair of these, too,” he says with a lewd grin over a pair of purple underwear – when he gets a call. She knows by the way he glares at the screen that it's Petyr, but he leaves the phone untouched on the end table. 

“Not gonna answer that?” she casually asks, hanging up her last flannel. It's next to the one of his that she took from New York. His scent on it is fading; she should have him wear it again before he goes. 

“He'll only want something I don't want to do. If it's so important, he'll leave a message.” The ringing cuts off and he grins in triumph. 

Jaime's been on edge since he recorded the last song for his album – touchy, and more prone to sullen silences than she's used to from him. Still himself, but peevish, like he's got an itch he can't scratch. Brienne's not sure how to help him through this, and he's just happy enough that she's not sure how to ask. If it were any other problem, she could figure it out, but his music career is a shadow that she doesn't know how to fight. 

His phone rings again and Jaime grimaces at it before picking it up, putting it on speaker. “Hello?” His voice is edged, but civil. 

“Hello, Jaime. I hope your day is going well.” 

“It was. Why are you calling?” 

Brienne makes a face at him and he makes one back in silence. 

“I've got a rough mix of the new song for you. It's sounding very good. It sounds like a hit,” Petyr says, clearly pleased. Jaime's brow furrows. “I want you to open with this one at your shows.” 

Jaime glances up at the ceiling; she can see the way he's containing himself in the unhappy lines forming around his eyes, the way his shoulders arch upward. “We haven't practiced it enough as a band for that.”

“I can arrange some studio time for you. Tonight, and tomorrow.” 

“I can't,” Jaime says quickly, glancing at Brienne. “I've got plans until we leave. We can practice on the road.” 

“I see.” Those two words drip with such meaning that Brienne's stomach clenches. 

“Petyr--”

“We'll have the full album mixed a couple of weeks into the tour, but this song will be done and ready for radio play a few days into the new year. I suggest you make some time now to get comfortable with it.” 

Jaime's jaw clenches, his fingers tightening around the phone. “No. Not until we're on the road,” he insists, and after a beat of weighty silence, Petyr makes an acquiescing hum. 

“Very well. I'll let you go, then, if you truly won't arrange any studio time before then,” Petyr says. 

“I won't.” Jaime's tone is steel with finality. 

Petyr bids him goodbye and hangs up and Jaime tosses his phone hard enough onto the end table that it bounces and falls onto the floor. 

“Fuck.” He sighs, rubbing his forehead. Brienne steps hesitantly towards him and takes his other hand. 

“How can I help?” 

“Can you magically make Petyr do what I want?” His smile is wan, dimmed. 

“I'm pretty intimidating when I want to be,” she says, and Jaime brightens a bit, tugs her a step closer. 

“Maybe to other people. But _I_ know you have unicorn pajamas, so your badass, Amazon mystique won't work on me.” 

Brienne snorts and pokes him in the chest. “This from the man who bought himself and his dog matching trapper hats.” 

“Sources tell me that women find trapper hats very sexy.” He says it with a hint of the ease from before Petyr's call.

“Who on earth told you that?” 

Jaime wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her tight against him. “I'm almost positive you did.” 

She kisses his cheek, the stubble still unfamiliar under her lips. “I must have been drunk.” 

He huffs and rubs the side of his head against hers. “I just wish...” When he exhales, the air blows humid across her neck. Brienne stays quiet, giving him space to say what he needs. “I wish everything wasn't a fight,” he finally says. His voice is quiet, and tired. “That I didn't have to be on my guard every second.” 

She hums softly, and presses her lips to the jut of his jaw. She can't help him with Petyr except by being there, but maybe she can find some other way to ease the tension she feels in his temple pressed to hers.

* * *

They spend New Year's Eve at Jaime's apartment, watching what fireworks they can see from the small balcony. It's not much, but neither of them is really interested in the show anyway. They've got one more day and then Jaime is off again. 

When he thinks about only the journey and not what he's leaving behind, he's excited, the lure of live music making his upcoming departure a little easier. He'd forgotten how addicting the thrill of performing in front of a crowd was – the noise and the hard-earned sweat and the joy of jamming with the band – but it's back in his blood now, beckoning. 

He just wishes Brienne could come with him, too, even for a week here and there and not the long months that stretch unbroken ahead of them. Every night she hasn't been with him in bed, her absence has been the same uneasy stillness as a too-long rest in a song, the tension of waiting for her harmony to return. But he can't change the tour and she can't leave the bar for that long or that often. They'll make it work, somehow. The only other option is unthinkable. 

They kiss as the clock strikes midnight on New Year's Eve, their hands gripping each other tightly, and Jaime tries not to wish for something that will never be. 

The next morning, Jaime wakes up first, kisses her temple and pads barefoot into the living room in just his underwear. He idly tinkers with his Brienne song, but either his brain or the music – or both – aren't working quite right, so he shuts the notebook and leans back into the couch. 

The tour has him nervous, in a different way than when he'd left in September. Back then he'd been taking the first step on a shrouded path, eking out a fanbase and learning about his band. This time he's going out with people who have become friends, but the tour doesn't feel like it's his any longer. 

They've got bigger venues and slightly nicer hotels and the same type of rental van, but Littlefinger Records has jumped in with the scheduling and the PR, as well; the outfits and the set list. Never a command, but so many strongly-worded suggestions that Jaime's sitting on the other side of all these decisions wondering how he's gotten here. The music is still his, except for the radio song. Jaime's not sure what he's going to do about Petyr's request to open every show with it; forget to play it some nights, maybe, and forget the worst of the lyrics others, but it makes him feel dishonest to do even that much. It will be a hit, if Petyr's blitzing plans for radio play are any indication, but Jaime doesn't want to ride the back of this song to fresh success – it would be no better than riding on the wave of his past glory. Yet another problem he hasn't figured out how to solve yet. 

It's hard to believe sometimes that it's not even been a year since he started performing again. These months have produced a series of utterly foundation-shaking changes – and none as dramatic as Brienne herself. 

Jaime's life has always been a series of disappointments, brief flashes of connection ripped away again. It's the nature of performance, of the family he grew up with, the shiny armor he's put on in the ensuing years. He's had his brother and Belle, and everything else has been all surface and no substance. Then he'd met Brienne – steady and stubborn, capable and deeply kind, there every time he calls her from the road and happy to see him every time he walks in the room – and now his whole life is different. The cracks caused by their meeting had let in light Jaime hadn't known had always been there. Any other bar that first Tuesday, and Jaime may have never performed again. Any other bartender and he wouldn't feel like he's always one step from smiling. A year ago he'd thought he only wanted to play a few songs for a willing audience, and now his dreams are unfolding with Brienne unexpectedly at the center of them. 

As though she hears him thinking of her, the bedroom door opens and Brienne appears in the hall entrance a moment later. 

“Good morning, Mr. Thunder,” she says in a hushed, throaty voice, and Jaime inhales sharply. 

She's wearing his cowboy hat – _just_ his hat. The rest of the long column of her body is bare and pale and swirled with freckles like living marble. Her eyes are blue exclamation points, bright with intent. It's only when she lifts one hand that he finally notices the tie she's holding, and when she runs it through her other hand, gripping the opposite end and pulling the fabric taut, what blood hasn't already flowed south rushes to his cock so fast he feels dizzy. 

“Good morning, Barkeep,” he manages around his thick tongue. “I appreciate your fashion choices.” 

Brienne tips her hat to him and even though she's serious, a tiny, nervous smile escapes and he can't breathe around the expanse of his love for her. “I know you've been stressed lately,” she says, walking towards him, magnificently tempting. “I was hoping we could try something.” He can't decide whether to watch the sway of her hips or the fuzzy blonde hairs at the apex of her legs or the determined set of her face. 

“You know me,” he offers, opening his legs and stretching his arms over the back of the couch. Whatever she's got planned will be better than worrying another second about the tour. “I'm up for anything.” 

She stands between his legs and he barely holds himself still, though he wants to rub his hands all over her. Instead he tilts his head back to meet her eyes, smiling lazily. Or as lazily as he can manage given how badly he wants to tug her onto his lap and sink deep inside. His fingers curl into the leather of the couch. 

“Will you let me tie--”

“Yes,” he says, cutting her off, and she makes a disapproving face at him. 

“Let me finish asking you at least.” 

He bites his lip to keep from grinning at her adorably pursed mouth. “My apologies. But the answer still stands, no matter how that question ends.”

“Then stand up so I can do this.” 

She steps backward to give him space and he stands, his cock heavy in his underwear already. She looks at it with a hunger that makes his hips shift. 

“Turn around,” Brienne tells him and he does, unhesitating. With surprising confidence, she pulls his arms back behind him, his hands at his low back, elbows wide, and ties his wrists together with the cool silk. The hairs on his arms raise when she brushes her fingertips over where the tie meets his skin, probing. The air in his lungs is dense with anticipation. 

“If you want me to stop at any time, I will,” she tells him, low and firm. “Just say stop. Just hint at it, and we'll quit.”

Jaime swallows around the desire boiling up from his groin to his stomach to his throat. “I know,” he says, and his voice is already roughened. “I trust you.” 

She makes a tiny, pleased hum, and then turns him back around. Jaime tests the tension of her knot, finds it loose enough he could work a hand out with some effort if he needed to. It's such a Brienne maneuver, to bind him with his agreement and still give him space to get away, that he surges up and kisses her, and they both go stumbling a few steps when he tips off-balance into her chest. She steadies him with her capable hands and Jaime grins, sheepish. 

“Didn't realize how much I used my arms for that,” he explains, and she laughs a little, kisses him with a delicate brush of her lips. 

“You won't need to be standing,” she says, nudging him carefully onto the couch. Jaime lowers slowly with her help, settles back against the sleek leather in a way that keeps his weight evenly balanced, and then cranes his neck up to look at her. Brienne's still wearing his hat, and a purposeful expression that makes him shiver in shameless response. 

“Comfortable?” she asks. 

He nods, silent. Whatever's driving this, he doesn't want to throw her off-course by talking too damn much. Brienne sinks to her knees in front of him, all the long stretch of her muscles bunching like a coiling spring as she does and his pelvis tilts up in his eagerness. 

The rough edges of her calluses scrape along his thighs, catching at the hairs, up to the waistband of his underwear. 

“Can you lift up a little?” She's staring right at his cock and Jaime doesn't make a smartass comment, deciding that silence is still the wisest course of action. 

Instead he lifts his hips up as best he can with his arms trapped behind him and Brienne struggles and yanks at his underwear until they're both laughing. 

“Maybe I should stand up,” he finally says and she presses her lips together in concentration and her palm firmly on his abdomen. The weight and control in that one touch make his muscles jump. They figure out that if he lifts one hip at a time it can be done, and all the negotiation has his cock only half-hard now, which is good because it means he'll last longer than a minute when she gets to whatever else she has planned. 

Brienne holds up his underwear like a trophy hunter and Jaime snickers, leans forward and captures her mouth in a long, deep kiss. It's easier to keep his balance when he's sitting, but he has no resistance when she pushes him back into the couch again. 

“For now, I control this,” she informs him. She delivers it in a mock stern voice, but there's just enough real command that his cock swells again, and Jaime widens his legs for comfort. 

“Whatever you want, Barkeep.” 

She licks her lips and draws one finger down his length and he trembles. “I want you,” she whispers, then bends down and takes his cock in her mouth. 

Jaime throws his head back against the couch and groans aloud at the burning heat of her wet lips around him. His arms strain with the urge to reach out and touch her, his shoulders twisting a little as he fights it for a second before he forces himself to relax again. 

Not that there's much relaxing happening. Brienne's single-minded in her approach, taking him deep and swirling her tongue over the head when she gets to the end, then repeating it in a slow rhythm that Jaime's trying not to thrust in time with. It's taking all his focus when she pulls away and whispers lightly at the tip of his cock, “Is this okay?”

“God, yes,” he manages. His whole body is rigid with the effort of holding himself in place. 

“You're not moving much,” she says, licking along the ridge of his cock and Jaime makes what might be an embarrassingly yearning noise if it weren't Brienne hearing it. 

“I'm trying not to.” 

Brienne squeezes his shaft with one strong palm and he jerks into her grip before controlling himself again. “You don't have to hold back, Jaime,” she tells him. “I don't want you to.” 

“I can't-- I don't want to hurt you.”

She nods a little, rubs her thumb down to his sack and cups him gently and a tremor runs through him. “You won't,” she assures him. “You don't have to do anything but enjoy this. I've got you,” she adds, before taking him in her mouth once more. 

His shouts a curse, and she wraps her hands around his hips urging him to move, to fuck her wide, sensual mouth from where she's got him bound and already sweating on the couch and it hits him with a sudden, electrifying understanding that she's entirely in control here and he can just _react_ – can trust that Brienne will see both of them through this without Jaime having to be watching and worrying about doing too much or being too much. That unlike everywhere else in his life, he can just let himself _be_ with her – be seen _by_ her – and he falls into the freedom of that under her gentle guidance. 

He trusts Brienne, so he does whatever she wants and what she wants are his greedy thrusts, his insensible moaning as sparks shoot down his spine and she's working him with hand and mouth, popping off to rub his cock over her cheeks and chin as she whispers praise and how she loves him, and just as Jaime's toes start to curl she pulls back a little, her hand slowing, keeping him teetering on the edge. 

“Jaime,” she murmurs and he blinks, hazy, stares at her as though she's far away from where he's all nerves and need. Her eyes tether him here. “I want you to come inside me. Is that okay?” 

He swallows, tries to speak, can only nod furiously with wanting it, too. There is nothing but Brienne climbing over him, straddling his spread thighs with her long legs, able to hold herself up enough to tease his cock with the hairy lips of her cunt and Jaime whines, wordless, aching for her, only her. She kisses him sweetly as she sinks down and he shudders all over, his hands twisting helplessly behind him where they're shoved against the couch leather. 

“Do you need me to untie you?” she asks, staring at him with concern in her enormous blue eyes. 

Jaime firmly shakes his head. 

“I need you to say it,” she urges him. “Are you okay tied up?” 

“Yes,” he rasps, the only word he's capable of with her clenching around him, the weight of her body pressing him further back into the cushions. _Yes_ is the only answer he ever has for her. His shoulders twinge but it's a distant feeling; not pain, just a reminder that Brienne is fully in charge and she won't hurt him. 

“Good,” she says, but she's ragged and breathless, too, now, rolling her hips as Jaime tries to thrust in time. Brienne's moaning, one hand on the couch by his head, her other between them, rubbing her clit, her knuckles against his abdomen. He wants to hold her and he wants to let her fuck him until he passes out and he wants to bury his face against her chest and let everything go. 

He must be mumbling out loud because she leans down and whispers, “Yes, Jaime, good, you're so good, strong and kind and I love when you're inside me. I love you. I need you. I need you to come--” She gasps and clenches around him, and her arm is steel against his cheek as she cries out and he does as she wants again, always, on a choked wail that shatters him apart under her. 

Jaime thinks he does pass out briefly, because he blinks his eyes open to find Brienne, still straddling him, having pulled him into her chest to undo the tie. He presses his mouth against her flushed skin in an approximation of a kiss and she huffs, amused; she's tender when she kisses the top of his head. 

“Welcome back,” she murmurs and he laughs a little, pulling his limp arms to his sides as soon as he's free before flopping bonelessly back against the couch. 

Brienne leans down to kiss him then slides off and to his side to nuzzle into his neck. She lost the hat at some point; he sees it lying on the ground. Jaime manages to bring one hand up to curl around her knee resting on his thigh. They're both sweaty and panting, his shoulders are tender, and his heart has raced off so far ahead of him he's gonna need to wrestle it back into his chest. 

“That seemed good,” she says, tentative once more. 

Jaime rolls his head to the side and kisses her forehead. He's not sure even he can find the words to convey the way he's floating and heavy all at once, so in love with her he might split apart with it, so he settles on, “It was incredible. _You're_ incredible.”

Brienne kisses the top of his chest and sighs. “One more day.” 

He wants to beg her to come with him; he wants her to beg him to stay. There are too many things he wants and he doesn't know how to balance them yet, but he will. He'll do whatever it takes to figure it out. 

“Maybe I should've left you tied up so you can't leave,” she adds, her voice cracking under the lightness. She draws her fingers through the sweat-soaked hair on his chest.

 _Yes_ , he thinks. _Yes._

* * *

“Don't go without saying goodbye this time,” Brienne tells him that night, and the next morning she wakes to his gentle touch. 

He's wearing soft jeans and her shirt, and a sad smile. “The band's waiting downstairs.”

She sits up and holds him close, bunching the shirt in her fists. “This might've been a mistake,” she says, her voice jumpy with held-back tears, and he laughs but it's thick with his own. 

“I'll call you tonight,” he tells her. She's glad he doesn't try to lie and reassure her that it'll be no time at all till she sees him again. Brienne breathes deep, memorizing his smell, the way his cheek fits against hers. 

“Safe travels,” she whispers. 

Jaime kisses her temple, her chin, her mouth, and she unwinds her arms from his neck. They stare at each other in the dim, gray light of early morning. His phone dings and he makes a face. It's probably Margaery, hurrying him along. Brienne wonders how long he's been dragging his feet this morning, and it steadies her. 

“Go on, or she'll make you pay for it somehow.” 

Jaime grins, scoops up his bag. “She'll hog the good microphones. She's got a sixth sense about it.” 

“Can't have that.” His phone dings again and he sighs and turns for the door. Belle's tail thumps softly from where she's staring, not-quite-awake, from the foot of the bed. “Jaime,” Brienne calls out, tamping down the grasping, greedy voice that wants him to stay. There are tight lines around his eyes. She thinks about yesterday and the way he'd surrendered so completely to her, because he trusts that she won't misuse him, unlike everyone else in his life. “I love you, cowboy.”

His smile lights the room. “I love you, too, Barkeep.” He grabs his hat from the dresser, kisses her one last time, and then he's gone. Belle looks back at Brienne with warm, curious eyes as they wait for the sound of the front door. When it clicks closed, Brienne lies back down and drags Jaime's pillow near.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the sex scene in this chapter, Brienne ties a willing and fully consenting Jaime up at the wrists before they have sex.


	28. Tonight I wish someone would hold me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the way things have to be while they chase down their dreams, running hard and on different enough paths that he doesn't want to make her stumble because of his problems. Besides – he'd take the feel of only himself in his hand while she gasps in his ear, the drowsy sound of her voice as they talk late into the night, the photo of her he takes out and gently traces before a show, over not having any of it at all. So he hangs with the band and plays shows and talks to Brienne and reminds himself the rest will all be worth it someday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Brynn for service above and beyond the call of duty on getting these next chapters right!

“They sent me the whole album today,” Jaime tells Brienne a few weeks later over the phone. He's in a decent motel in Augusta, Georgia, and his internet is good enough that he'd been able to download the large file to his phone. “I haven't listened to it yet. You wanna hear it with me?” 

“Of course!” Brienne sounds far away over the speaker, but her excitement is clear. “How was the show tonight?” 

“Good,” he says, because it had been. They've all been _good_ so far, the band picking up with only a little stumbling, the audiences as eager as when they'd ended the first leg a month ago. There's more of a buzz now, the venues a bit bigger, the lines a little longer, and it's intoxicating to step on stage to a roar that thunders through the floorboards. 

It's all _good_ – not the rawness and half-empty spaces of those first weeks, nor the overly-cultivated shine from when he was younger – but it hasn't been _great_. There's the bro-country offense they rush through playing to open the show each night, the interviews centered solely around his old songs on the upcoming new record, and the puff pieces about his updated look. Even the fan experience is slightly altered. The Littlefinger team had arranged a few “Meet the Artist” VIP ticket sales, so he doesn't always get to just sit at the merch table and shoot the shit any longer. Jaime loves meeting fans after a show, but he doesn't love how much more often he has to avoid straying hands and far-too-forward propositions without the table between them, when it's the end of the show and some of them are already drunk and they've paid for his time and his smiles. When all he can think about is calling Brienne. 

When he's back in his hotel room and on the phone with her, he can finally be just himself again, surrounded by the warm comfort of her voice. The remote control vibrator has been a wild success several times already for keeping them close, but after they're done and the distance rushes back, it only makes him miss her more. 

Jaime doesn't tell her any of that. This is the way things have to be while they chase down their dreams, running hard and on different enough paths that he doesn't want to make her stumble because of his problems. Besides – he'd take the feel of only himself in his hand while she gasps in his ear, the drowsy sound of her voice as they talk late into the night, the photo of her he takes out and gently traces before a show, over not having any of it at all. So he hangs with the band and plays shows and talks to Brienne and reminds himself the rest will all be worth it someday. 

The album that's finally ready to listen to is the first concrete proof of that. Jaime takes a breath and hits play. The first song on this is the radio song, too, and he winces when it starts with an over-produced guitar line. 

“Can you hear it?” he asks over the music. 

“Yeah,” Brienne says. He can tell just from her voice that she's as nervous about this as he is. 

The song is the song, and Jaime's not sure there's any way to make it anything other than what it is: an obvious ploy to appeal to the broadest spectrum of listeners possible. He supposes there's nothing wrong with that, except that it's not _him_. When it ends, he pauses the playback. 

“Well,” he starts, drawing the word out, and Brienne giggles, high-pitched like she'd been holding it in and it's escaping her, and he laughs, too. “At least we started at the bottom.” 

“You sounded good,” she offers. 

“Don't I always?” 

He can picture her fondly annoyed face so clearly that he laughs again when she only says, “Play the next song, cowboy.” 

He does, and it's... it's his song, at least, but not quite what he'd expected. It's the first one he'd ever played at Selwyn's, one of his favorites, and when they'd talked about it in the studio, Jaime had made sure the engineer understood it should be sultry, but not obscene. It was the suggestion that made it sexy, and hitting the obvious notes too hard just cheapened the whole effect. The engineer had nodded and scribbled down notes, had done a quick five-second test that had sounded good, but none of that seems to have made it into the final cut. It's his song, but not how he imagines it sounds when he plays it; definitely not how it sounds on the demo. 

When it's done he pauses again and huffs into the phone. “That's not right.”

“I'm glad you said that.” Brienne sighs. “It's so...” 

“Slutty?” 

She snickers. “I guess, yeah. It's more straight-forward than I expected. I'd wondered if it's just been so long since I heard you play it, maybe I'd remembered it differently.” 

Jaime makes a disappointed noise and starts the next song and it's the same experience – his voice, his music, his lyrics, but the song isn't quite _his_. All of the emotional beats are too obvious, and the music has been produced to within an inch of its life. It's not that any of them are bad, but the soul is missing. 

They quietly listen to the end of the album and then he thumps his head back against the wall on a loud exhale. 

“What are you going to do?” Brienne asks. She knows him so well and he wishes, with an urgency he hasn't felt since the middle of the last tour, that she were here. He wants to be wrapped in her strong arms, to hold her in his own. He wants the solace of being with the person he trusts most in the world. Maybe her presence could give him the energy to do what has to come next. 

“I have to talk to Petyr, see what we can change.” Jaime runs his hand over his hair, still short and coiffed how the label had wanted. There's a radio interview early tomorrow, and then they're on the road again. 

“Do you want to call him now?” 

He can't think of much he wants _less_. “In the morning. I'm too tired to fight. I'm tired of having to fight at all.” 

“I know, darlin',” she says, soothing, and it makes him smile.

“I thought that was my thing,” he says, gently teasing. 

“You sounded like you needed it.” He can hear her shy grin. “I could go back to 'Colt' if you want.” 

“God, no. Though I did appreciate that 'Mr. Thunder' back on New Year's.” Jaime rubs at his chest, trying to ease the pressure there. “Has Ellaria had any other suggestions?” 

Brienne had admitted that she'd gotten advice from Ellaria about their couch session with the tie. Jaime can't imagine that conversation, but he's certain Ellaria had wanted to hear all about it afterward and had been eager to provide more advice in its wake. He's eager for it, too, and not just as a distraction from his disappointing album, though he certainly wouldn't mind that either. 

Over the line, Brienne's quiet for longer than she should be and Jaime feels his energy returning. “She has, hasn't she?” he asks with growing delight.

“Yes,” Brienne says tentatively, and then goes quiet again. 

“You're killing me, Barkeep. Give me _something_.” 

“It's funny you should phrase it that way,” she starts, and Jaime's breath escapes in a low groan. He has flashes of her hovering over him, holding her vibrator in those long, rough fingers. 

“When am I gonna see you again?” he asks hoarsely. 

“I don't know... You don't have any long breaks and we've got some events planned at the bar over the next couple of weeks, though the weather's been terrible. But if they pan out, I should have some extra money to fly to you. I _miss you_ ,” she says, her voice an ache that echoes in his heart. “So, maybe after Valentine's Day?” 

“Whenever you want works for me. You know I'll happily pay your ticket then, or sooner. It's selfish, so you shouldn't think of it as a gift.” 

Brienne laughs a little. “All right, then right after Valentine's Day, since we have the events. You'll be in Louisiana, right?” 

“Hell if I know. I just go where Ilyn drives us.” 

“You will be,” she says confidently, and he's sure she's got his whole tour memorized. It makes him feel loved, the way she keeps track of him even when he's gone. 

“Will we be anywhere near New Orleans around then?”

“No,” she says, obviously disappointed. “I've never been, either.” 

“I'll take you,” he promises. “As soon as I'm done with the tour, we'll go.” Jaime pictures it: eating beignets with her in the morning, napping and making love in the hot afternoon, walking around the French Quarter with her at night. 

“Are you sure? What if Petyr has plans for you?” She sounds understandably, heartbreakingly hesitant. 

“There might be a few summer festivals, but the band and I are gonna need a break. A few weeks at least.” Jaime doesn't mention the noises Petyr's already started making about a potential tour across the Atlantic, and the likelihood they'll be on the road again in the fall. He's tired of fighting, but time with Brienne is worth fighting for. 

“Maybe we should wait,” she hedges. “See what happens.” 

“Brienne--” he starts, and then falls silent, leaving the rest unsaid. What can he tell her when they both know the truth: his schedule is not his own, and until he has enough clout or success or disregard for his career to control it, they'll have to keep including Petyr and Littlefinger Records in all of their decisions. Jaime should be used to having someone else overseeing his life, but he trusts Petyr even less than his father, and the binds chafe more than ever. It's starkly different from Jaime's absolute certainty in Brienne – he would let her tie him up in every conceivable way, not just how she had on New Year's. 

“We'll work it out,” he eventually says. Then, hoping to distract them both, he adds, “Tell me more about the bar events.” 

It works, and soon enough they're hashing out the best playlist for the Beginner's Line Dancing night, but the cloudy uncertainty of the future hangs over the rest of the evening nonetheless.

* * *

Jaime's talk with Petyr the next morning doesn't start off well. 

“What the hell is this?” he says when Baelish texts him a link to a photo and article coming out that afternoon. 

“Branding,” Petyr says simply. 

Jaime reads the headline again: _Meet Jaime Lannister: Country Music's Sexiest Up-and-Coming Star!_ There's a photo he remembers taking at the shoot that he'd desperately hoped they wouldn't use. In it, he's leaning back against a wall with his shirt completely unbuttoned, exposing his bare chest, and sleeves rolled to the elbows. His dark jeans are slung low enough to show the waistband of his underwear, and he's got his head tilted down, his eyes up towards the camera. He knows he looks good in it, but it's just like the song – too obviously selling sex and not the humanity behind it that he actually cares about. 

The article isn't much better, though at least there's nothing new to be annoyed at. 

Jaime tugs at his necklaces and wonders what other battles he should've fought harder but had given ground on instead. He hates not knowing what's going to be the thing that comes back to bite him the most. 

“Can we get a different photo?” Jaime asks. 

“Too late for that now, I'm afraid, they're already using it for the print publication.” 

“Can you run these things by me sooner, then? It's my image at stake here.” 

“I didn't think you'd want to be that involved in the media aspect,” Petyr says, all false concern. 

“Well, I do. I thought y'all would handle it better,” he says, frustrated. 

Petyr hums blandly. “Very well, we can add lead time to publicity. Though you'll need to be responsive, we can't force magazines to wait for you. You don't want to be difficult.” 

There it is again, the word Jaime's come to hate. “Some things are worth being difficult about,” he insists, and looks at the notes he'd taken on each song in preparation for this talk with Petyr. “Speaking of which.” 

“I take it you listened to the album,” Petyr says with a dry, dark humor. Neither of them laughs. 

“You signed me for _me_ ,” Jaime begins. “That album is barely me. It's barely _country_.” 

“Don't forget that we also signed you for your crossover potential. Those covers you love aren't all country songs. You were young when you were in this business before, Jaime; people don't want to hear just country anymore.” 

“This isn't even pop-country. This isn't even straight pop – I'd have less of a problem if it were. It's just stylized nothingness. There's no spirit to it,” Jaime protests, his voice rising. He rises and paces the room as they talk.

“They're your songs--”

“The music and lyrics are mine, but whatever the engineer did, he didn't understand them. I took some notes on the recordings – things that can be changed that won't be too hard to do.”

“You want us to re-produce your entire album?” Petyr's voice is high with disbelief. “Do you know how much money that will cost?” 

“I'll pay for it,” Jaime says firmly. 

“We have a very tight release schedule. Even a few days--”

“Then at least make changes to my new songs. Leave the revamped ones from when I was a kid, the radio song, the covers. But I want mine to be _mine_.” 

Petyr sighs, an aggressive burst that sounds like a brief windstorm over the phone. “This is highly unusual and extremely inconvenient.” He pauses, like he's expecting Jaime to apologize and change his mind, but Jaime stays quiet. “You're not our only artist. The engineer will have to work overtime to fit this in.” 

“I'll pay him double.” 

It's silent long enough that if Jaime hadn't grown up a Lannister, he'd be leaping uncomfortably into it to take it all back. Working for his father's business had taught him this much. 

“Fine,” Petyr eventually spits. “Your new songs _only_. And you don't get right of refusal a second time.”

“Then I want to talk to the engineer directly, and get working samples to make sure he's on the right track.” 

“You're causing us a lot of trouble,” Petyr says, and for once, he's the one who sounds sneering and defeated. _Good_. 

“It's worth it. All that matters is the music.” 

Petyr scoffs. “You think people become superstars just because of their music?” 

“I think I don't want to become a star any other way.” 

“Send the notes,” Petyr says. Whatever trace of friendliness there may have been before, even insincere, is entirely gone now. “I'll put you and the engineer in touch. Don't fuck up my schedule, Jaime.” 

“I won't,” he says, and they hang up after that. Jaime sits heavily on the edge of the hotel bed, his shoulders slumped. He's won this battle, but he wonders what the cost will be.

* * *

“This can't be right,” Jon says, peering inside the box he's opened. 

Brienne glances over from where she's rearranging bottles to make space for whatever Valentine's decorations that Jon is now unpacking. They've still got a couple of weeks, but Galladon had insisted on ordering them; he thinks it'll help sell the singles event if they start putting up a few items in preparation. Brienne's concerned it'll affect the vibe of the bar, but Gal's always thinking about the next customer, not the one already there, which is a mindset she hasn't gotten used to yet. 

There's a lot she's not used to, but she keeps at it because slowly, like an aircraft carrier, the course of the bar is turning. She feels like she's the tugboat out there dragging it all on her own, but the small signs of progress keep her motivated when she's flagging. They posted decent numbers in December, and January is looking like it might be even better. Brienne still spends too many afternoons crunching numbers and bean-counting funds, has sat in her truck and stared listlessly at the streetlights too many nights waiting for Jaime to call and give her the energy to drive home, but they're slowly paying off debts, and she's started making tentative plans for building improvements. The idea of arranging them around her schedule and the bar's sounds overwhelming, but it needs to be done. Yet another item on a list that only seems to get longer, no matter how much she crosses off. 

As the weather turns to spring, Gal's suggested they should start expanding to outdoor events, too, in the empty lot behind the bar. It's an unused parcel, too expensive for Selwyn's to rent, too out-of-the-way for the owner to sell, but she's contacted the landowner and, for a small fee, it'll be theirs for the days they need it. He's nothing if not interested in squeezing out every last dime he can. Of all the debts they'd had to pay, Brienne had put the land rental first, nervous about what Bolton might do if they left him too long. 

Jon shakes the box, as though it'll change whatever is inside, and then looks up at Brienne, frowning. “This can't be right,” he says again. 

“Give me that.” She takes the box and gapes at the smiley-faced penis with a giant heart that says _I'm HARD to resist_ on it, then turns to Jon.

“It's not mine,” he protests. 

She checks the shipping label, half-expecting it to be a surprise from Jaime. It's the bar's address, but the recipient's name is Galladon. He must have sent the package to the wrong address when he'd been shopping on their behalf. Brienne breaks into a slow grin. “I have to make a call.” 

Gal picks up after three rings. 

“--your daughter,” he says off-speaker, and then his voice is much closer when he says, “Hi Brie-bee.” 

“Hey Gal. How's your visit with Dad?” 

“We're just about to go see a movie, if he can settle on something.” She hears her father's deep voice, though she can't make out what he's saying. Whatever it is, it makes Galladon chuckle. “As you can imagine, I've got time to talk. What's up?” 

“We got your delivery today,” she announces with mock seriousness. 

“The V-Day stuff? Is it okay? I thought it was what you were looking for?” 

A giggle escapes her, and in the quiet on the other line, she can imagine Gal's confused face. “To be honest,” she says, “I've already found one of those I like.”

The silence stretches out. “Brienne, what--”

“Was this a gift for Alayne at the cafe?” she asks, trying to sound offended and barely even reaching rational. 

“Oh shit,” Gal groans. 

“Because if so, things between you must be on the rise.” She and Jon both snicker. 

“This is the worst day of my life.” 

“I didn't realize your crush had _grown_ ,” she manages before she starts laughing, Jon cracking up next to her. 

“I'm hanging up on you.” 

“Are you gonna tell her it's life-sized, or--”

“ _Brienne!_ ” he shouts. “I _will_ get you back for this.” 

“It's not my fault you don't understand how online ordering works,” she retorts, swallowing down the rest of her laughter. 

“I was busy,” he grumbles, and she hears her dad's voice again in the background, clearer this time and asking what's going on. 

“Good luck explaining this to Dad,” she says, cheerful. “Don't keep him out too late, he turns into a bad-driving pumpkin at midnight.” 

“At least he goes out enough to turn back into a vegetable, Cinderella.” 

Brienne frowns at the bar, her good mood punctured. “I don't have a fairy godmother. When exactly am I supposed to fit that in around everything I have to do?” Gal sighs over the line, and she can already play out the entire, familiar argument they're about to have, so she cuts it off by saying, “I gotta go.”

“Yeah, me too,” he says, in exactly the same tone, before they say goodbye. 

“What should we do with this?” Jon asks as she's turning her phone over in her hands, wishing every conversation with Gal didn't end that way. 

Brienne shakes her head a little and smiles for Jon. “Let me have it. I'm supposed to see him before Valentine's Day to talk our strategy out one more time over lunch. It'll be worth it to hand it over in person.” 

Jon gives her the box and she runs it out to the truck, storing it safely inside. It's freezing cold outside, and she shivers without her jacket, nearly slips on a patch of ice from the morning that never melted. Brienne groans and curses the weather. It'll add at least half an hour to her prep tonight to spread road salt, but she doesn't want someone to hurt themselves later, so the Valentine's Day decorating will have to wait until after they close. She's exhausted just thinking about it. 

When she comes back, adding the task to her phone, Jon's opening the other box. “You can set that aside for later,” she tells him. “I need to get some salt out there, it's slippery. I'll handle the decorations tonight.” 

“I'll do the salting,” Jon says quickly. “You finish with this.” 

“No, it's fine, I'll--”

“Brienne.” Jon gives her a look she's growing more used to seeing on his face, a patient determination to let him help. 

It's been a relief to have Jon moving more and more into a participatory role in the bar, even if he's had to gently pry things out of her overfull hands to do so. “That would be great,” she says, relenting. “Thank you.” 

Jon nods and hurries into the back room while she opens the box and examines the cute and tasteful Valentine's decorations that Gal had intended to send. Brienne has to keep reminding herself not to be like her father, that if he'd just shared some of the burden earlier they might not be in this position now. And she's trying, but it's all too important, too difficult, requires too much time for her to ask of anyone else. When things are steadier, when there's room for error, then she'll happily ask more of Jon. For now, she's just grateful for every small stone he takes off her back. 

She's grateful for him beyond that, too. In addition to being trustworthy and competent, she's also learned that Jon is fun. Brienne's mostly too busy – or too tired – to do anything outside of work, but she'd let him drag her out with him and his new boyfriend one night to catch a show downtown, and they'd stayed out late, talking at a nearby diner. Jaime had called her on the long drive home, and his happy voice had kept her awake. It had been one of her better nights since she'd first discovered how much trouble the bar was in and Jaime had gone on tour. The kind of night that makes everything else a little easier to bear. 

The ache of missing Jaime is a low white noise in the background of the busy crunch of her days. She mostly tunes it out, except for the moments when it turns loud, like when she thinks of something she wants to show him or tell him; or when she watches other couples holding each other and yearns for his arms around her, too. 

It's those moments that she feels the most fragile, the closest to everything toppling over while she can only watch in despair. Those nights when something's gone wrong at the bar or she's got too much to juggle and not enough hands, when all she wants is to go home and have Jaime waiting for her there to comfort and soothe her. To make her a snack or kiss her senseless or just tuck her into bed. She can do it all on her own – even if Jaime were here, the work wouldn't be any less – but the tightrope she's walking feels less scary when she knows there's someone she can reach out for to balance herself. 

Lying in bed in the dark on those nights, so tired she can't fall asleep, Brienne reminds herself it's worth it, that it won't always be like this for either of them. That Jaime's only a phone call away, just as happy to hear from her one night to the next. That if she really needed them, Jon and Ellaria, her dad and Gal, are there. That it's still winter, but she can taste the spring. 

Most of the time, she believes it.

* * *

Later that night, Brienne's waved goodbye to Jon for the evening when her phone rings. It's early for Jaime, and when she checks the caller ID, she sees it's Galladon's number and puts it on speaker on the bar. 

“Hey,” she says, tucking the barstools in. “Calling to bug me about the bar some more?” 

“Brienne,” Gal says. His voice is deep and serious and she goes still, her heart pounding, her hands wrapped around the back of a stool. She's only ever heard Galladon sound like this once before. Their lives hadn't been the same since. 

“What happened?” She sounds so steady it surprises her. 

Gal takes a shuddering breath. “Dad was, uh. There was an accident? They called me. The police. They said there was black ice on the road. Someone was driving too fast. Like they always do on that stretch. He's in the hospital.”

“Is he-- do they think--” The words crowd her throat, but she can't force them out. 

“They don't know. It's pretty bad, but he's alive. I don't know. I'm going to the hospital and I thought you should--”

“Yes. Tell me which one and I'll meet you there.” 

“No,” he snaps. “Stop, just. Stop. It's too dangerous--”

“Fuck that. Tell me where he is, Gal.” She glares at the phone sitting silent on the bar, waiting for him to speak. “I'll call every hospital in Nashville until I find him. Then it'll be later and I'll be more tired when I'm driving. Just tell me.” 

Gal sighs. “Nashville General.”

“Thank you.” She can't seem to unwind her hands from around the stool. “If they let you see him before I get there, tell him to hold on for me.” Her voice finally cracks and she bites down hard on her lip to hold in a sob. 

“I will,” he whispers and then hangs up the phone. Brienne stares at it, waiting for him to call back and say it's all just some sick revenge, but the screen stays dark. 

With effort, Brienne uncurls her fingers to grab her phone. There's a dull ache in her hands, and blood rushes back down to the fingertips. She forgets to turn off the lights as she runs out the door to her truck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're worried, I shall point you to the tags.


End file.
